


The Marshall Plan

by realmzenith



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Angst, Cold War, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, M/M, Messy, Post-World War II, Rip gil, Suffering, alfred is a giant idiot but i swear he gets better, gay camping, gay it.. gets gay, history is messy kids its the truth, ill add tags for charas n ships as they come, ludwig sucks at communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmzenith/pseuds/realmzenith
Summary: World War II has come to a bloody, limping end, and with it, Ludwig has returned home to the rubble of Berlin. Life seems set on a downward spiral with the dismantling of his nation beginning and the tensions between America and Russia rising on either side, yet the low bar Ludwig has set for the future is one Alfred doesn't seem to share.Alfred has taken it upon himself to puzzle back together the broken cogs of the European machine, the end of the war bringing about opportunity for his budding influence and starry-eyed vision. The world is his oyster, and Ludwig is the man he's set on seeing first.What happens when their paths collide?





	1. September 8, 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the beginning of The Marshall Plan, a historical GerAme fic covering the time period just after WWII to the end of the Cold War! You can expect an update in a week, and kudos and comments are very much appreciated! The aesthetics for this chapter can be found [here](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/171855483167/expanse-it-feels-like-talking-to-a-ghost-and). Please enjoy. <3

_September 8, 1945_

The men of the Allied forces are scattered amongst the streets of Berlin, dressed in still pressed uniforms and flashy bravado leftover from yesterday’s victory parade. They stand out to the onlooker like bright fish in a sea of silver, the people of Berlin hurried and hollow with coats pulled too tight around too thin frames. Dust, grime, filth; it’s a broken city and a fitting reflection of the broken man it represents.

Centered in the muted crowds of Berliners, one man sticks out like a sore thumb. His trendy suit and gelled blond hair make for a fine set of iridescent feathers amidst a flock of gray-brown pigeons. Alfred is a flash of color and pomp, a peacock amongst the washed out hoards, but despite contrasting outward appearances an unlikely similarity between himself and the Berliners about him runs just beneath the surface. For both it's true that time doesn't stop for the burdened whether that burden be a hungry family or the fate of the world. 

However, the United States has no time for analogy or metaphor. Pretty words and empty promises are what his predecessors have laid before the world, but America is the here and now, the reality of a brighter future, the hero of this godforsaken night. Alfred will show them that when they try and tear apart the world twice in less than half a century, he’ll play babysitter to leash them all back together. It’s humiliating, really, but this, he muses, is what happens when there are too many different peoples and leaders and ailments in a history steeped tract of land no larger than just his one country.

He strolls around the corner and towards the door of the apartment complex whose address he’s been given, the bare bones and crushed innards of the bombed city crowding out the little building and coating it with dust. It’s brick and drab steel and somehow, still standing, which despite unassuming appearances, is a miracle in and of itself. 

He pushes open the door and starts up the grime-covered stairs. A part of him says Ludwig should keep them cleaner, but it's barely been months since the last bomb was dropped. He can’t be expected to sweep his stairs when the terms of his surrender have only just been filed away, so Alfred passes it by and pauses to recheck the paper in his pocket.  _ Second floor. Number twelve. That's where you'll find him. _ It's a pointless exercise since he's memorized its contents hours ago, but it takes time and time means later. He's not exactly nervous, but he's not exactly  _ not. _ It's silly, he knows, but nerves are rarely rational. He doesn't think you can blame him. 

He slips the paper back in his pocket and tugs at the ends of his jacket, starting back up the stairs. There's no point in waiting until sunset when here you don't need to wait to see the sky turn colors other than blue. He hops up the rest of the stairs two at a time before reaching the landing of floor number two and striking down the empty hall, the sound of his feet echoing in the vacancy and the paint peeling on the walls. There's no sign of life throughout the entire building, no laughing children or scolding mothers, no delivery boys or smoking men. It’s off-putting, but Alfred shakes it off and knocks at number twelve, sticking his thumbs in his pockets and leaning his weight to one side, the silence settling like night on a struggling world. The unnatural quiet, undeniable to a man so used to clamor, is unnerving in a way Alfred barely recalls.

But he doesn’t wait for long. As the door clicks opens Alfred sighs mentally in relief, the familiar face of Germany appearing before him. Ludwig’s eyes go wide, and his body leans away from him almost involuntarily, stopped in the center of the doorway. If he hadn't looked quite so pathetic, Alfred might’ve been offended, but the fear of Ludwig toppling over leaves him with little time to take offense. 

The man is dressed in nothing but an undershirt and pants too short for his legs and too wide for his waist with the belt pulled much too tight. Everything from his scarred hands to his bandaged limbs to his posture screaming defeat for a man who barely whispers is a testament to the weight war has laid on his shoulders. It's a picture Alfred has been presented with more than a few times as the war petered out to its grimy end, but unlike every time before, it's his eyes that seem strangely different. They’re duller than he's ever seen them before- like someone's sucked the life right out of them, yet for some twisted reason, Alfred finds himself relieved.

Ludwig’s eyes have always been piercing, but during the war, it was different. They were fire and lightning, white and hot, an unpredictable, savage force, tearing through Europe without a care for what was hit. It’s impossible to burn without consuming something, so the dullness makes sense in a horrible way. Alfred watches the hollow of his eyes with almost morbid curiosity, until slowly, his attention drifts back from the ashen depths of Ludwig’s eyes to the sound of his breaths.

“America,” Ludwig says.

His voice is as thin as tracing paper and heavy as lead. It's a paradox, but lately Ludwig has been full of them, and it's far too reminiscent of Gilbert.

“Hey, Ludwig.” He tries for a smile and a subtle nod. “Mind if I come in?” 

Ludwig shuffles to the side, moving like a man who’s been beaten, and Alfred pretends not to notice. He only prays his smile looks as real as it isn't.

“You know.” He watches Ludwig close the door, the words tumbling out of their own accord. “I’m planning on sending you some nice shit- food, that kind of thing- when I get back to my place. I’ll visit, too, starting from today. Did you come to the parade?¹ ”

“Yes.” He's guarded, resigned like Alfred could stroll over and kick him to the ground, and he wouldn’t do so much as make a sound. It's oddly wary, but Alfred doesn’t blame him.

“I guess you had to.” He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over his arm. “Probably wasn’t too fun. It wasn't even fun for me thanks to fucking Ivan. Hell knows how much coverage that’s getting back home,² but where’re my manners? How’ve you been faring here in the European shithole?”

“I am fine.” The words are hard, and his voice, hoarse, yet Ludwig still manages to sound like he’s whispering. He limps over to the table, pulls out a chair and swallows, dull gaze shifting to Alfred once more as if waiting to see what he’ll do next. 

Alfred takes it as an invitation to sit, so he walks over and sits all with the same, easy smile.

Small steps, he tells himself.

“You sit, too, Ludwig. Can’t have you standing around while I sit.” Alfred throws one leg over the other and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, tossing them on the table. “Want one?”

“Please. Yes.” Ludwig seats himself in the chair opposite as Alfred debates on switching to German.

He pulls two cigarettes from the pack and slips one between his lips, the lighter lit between his fingers. It's a familiar comfort thanks to the years spent out field, and hopefully, a way to soothe Ludwig into slipping off the razor edge he seems to be perched upon. Alfred lights the cigarette between his lips and the other between his fingers before holding it out to Ludwig who accepts it with a tired nod. Alfred thinks it must be a genuine talent to manage looking exhausted doing just that alone.

“Alright, is German easier for you? You’ll probably need practice with English eventually, but you seem pretty out of it.” Alfred’s trying not to sound accusatory. He doesn’t want to be, and he doesn't think he is, but Ludwig, god, he seems so fragile. It's almost a violation of privacy to try and hold a conversation with the man in the state he’s in. 

In all honesty, Alfred almost doesn’t have the heart to stay, but he does because he knows what will happen if he leaves. Ludwig will stare at the grimy walls in his dirty bandages and unwashed clothes. He won’t have proper meals or sleep in a bed or shower. He’ll never get back up on his feet without Alfred here to push him in the right direction, not with Arthur and Francis and Ivan ready to tear him to little shreds of tracing paper and ash until there’s nothing left for Alfred to try and puzzle back together. 

He’s not angry like them, or at least, not to the point where irrational rage is the only thing controlling his actions towards Germany and towards Ludwig. The world and Alfred need him back on his feet, so Alfred will be the one who stays.

“Whatever is most easy for you,” Ludwig says, and his grammar is enough of an answer for Alfred, so he slips into German, a smile still spread across his face. 

“You’ll have to bear with me. I’m out of practice, but at least this way you won’t have to waste extra energy translating things in your head.”

Ludwig is puffing out smoke, dull eyes set towards Alfred, but unfocused. 

“Thank you.” He breathes, and it’s marginally better though the words still fall like lead from his mouth. At least, he’s responding is what Alfred tells himself. Small steps, small steps.

Still, Alfred doesn’t like silence when he’s sitting across from another human being, so he starts up again with complaints about the idiocy of the communists. He hates the awkward barrier Ludwig has erected between them, so he spins stories of tense interactions with Russians and Russia, some exaggerated, some not and prays the words falling in sheets will wash away the ash seared like a second skin onto Ludwig’s being. He’s not even sure if Ludwig is listening, but Alfred is watching enough to make up for his not-looking and talking enough to make up for his silence.

By now Ludwig's cigarette is gone, stuck on a stray plate on the edge of the table, his hands fallen limp to his lap. Instead of blank, Ludwig seems almost perplexed, but when Alfred waits for him to ask his questions, there’s nothing. Alfred swears the wall just won’t break if there’s only crushing silence, so he keeps on talking.

He talks about everything but the bomb-hit, ash-burnt, tank-crushed scene just outside the window. He talks about nothing and nothing and nothing until their second cigarette is just a stub since half an hour ago, and when he finishes with a story about a boy selling matches in the streets of Paris, Ludwig is still seated with his hands on his knees and his eyes staring straight ahead, and the wall is still there, battle worn and tired. Like Ludwig. Just like Ludwig.

His arms are bleeding once again, red stains blooming on the bandages. Alfred frowns and wonders if Ludwig is just too polite to get up and change them while he’s here, or if he really doesn’t notice. Ludwig's fingers twitch, his thumb rubbing his forefinger, in the only sign of movement. 

When Alfred stands and places a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, he startles, but it's barely a second before he sinks back in his seat in defeat. Really, it’s more of an attempt to curl up into a fetal position while knowing you must sit up straight, and despite himself, Alfred finds his chest clenching at the sight. He swears he's going soft, but he brushes the thought off and claps his hands instead. 

“Where do you keep clean bandages?”

Ludwig’s gaze snaps up to him, and for a moment, Alfred finds himself expecting his bones to grind and disintegrate just from the motion of turning his head. But they don't, and Alfred is oddly relieved. 

“You shouldn’t.”

“Come on, Lud. You gotta tell me. You’ll get blood all over the fucking table otherwise, and you’re in no shape to be trying to clean that out. Plus, I kind of don't want to scrub that out either. No offense.” Alfred cracks a smile and lets his hands fall back down to his sides. 

“America-” Ludwig begins to stand in protest, but Alfred pushes him down by his shoulders as gently as he can. It’s like pressing into canvas pulled over sticks.

“No, Ludwig. Tell me. I'm here to help.” Alfred's voice is firmer now. For a moment, there’s flicker of defiance in the burnt out ash of Ludwig's eyes like embers waiting for a lungful of oxygen, but it smothers, and Ludwig returns to staring right through him.

“It is on the shelf to the right of the sink. Everything is there.”   


Alfred only nods. He takes the bandages and returns to Ludwig's side, lifting his arm onto the table and removing the old ones done haphazardly around his arm. The silence is suffocating, but he can't find the will to speak when Ludwig's blank stare towards the wall is interrupted only by the occasional wince. It feels like talking to a ghost and touching a skeleton, and there is still so much more to be done. Alfred lets the silence settle, and when the last bandage has been pinned down, he’s standing up. Ludwig thanks him in his tracing paper voice and follows his exit with his hollowed stare. 

That’s the end of it. 

It’s barely an hour later, and Alfred is out the door and on the steps, taking them down two at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹ The Berlin Victory Parade of 1945 was held in Berlin as the name might suggest on September 7, 1945. Seeing as it was a parade celebrating the Allied victory over Germany and the rest of the Axis Powers, Alfred’s suggestion that it might not have been fun for Ludwig is definitely reasonable. _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Victory_Parade_of_1945)]_
> 
> ² In Soviet records, this parade is referred to as the “forgotten parade” because Western media didn’t cover it extensively due to the already rising tensions that would bring about the beginnings of the Cold War. _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Victory_Parade_of_1945)]_


	2. February 1, 1947

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support! Your feedback means the world to me. <3 As always kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, and chapter three will be up in a week (though the hype for chapter four is real ;D). For anyone interested, the aesthetic for this chapter can be found [here.](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/172084576817/expanse-ludwig-hesitates-the-probable-inner) Happy reading!

_February 1, 1947_

Alfred can’t say where he stands on the Allied plans for Germany. It isn’t as if he has no opinions, but more to say he’ll be keeping them to himself. His opinions must be the opinions of the American public and not whatever that traitorous voice is whispering in the recesses of his mind. He must hold fast to the knowledge that Germany must be stripped of anything that could allow him to begin another war because god knows what the man thinks at night. God knows what’s behind those burnt out ash eyes.

Alfred surely doesn’t.

He wants to believe that Ludwig will have the good sense to refrain from starting World War Three, but the fear is there, creeping up his spine like simmering sulfur in a lake. He despises admitting to it, but the fear is there of Ludwig rising up with the same flaming anger and bitter taste for revenge and burning the world once again. They can’t afford it, not with the invention of the atomic bomb or the rising threat of the Soviet Union, not with the very likely possibility that if the world catches fire once more there will be nothing left living in the ashes. 

So the decision has been made. Germany will be kept on his knees because the future is more important than now.

Alfred doesn't like it, and that's the honest truth. It weighs on him like the million and one other things on his plate never do, but Alfred knows he cannot afford another war, and Europe, seeped in the blood of the tens of millions struck dead on its battlefields and in its air and homes and beds, would break beneath the weight. It’s why they must take Ludwig's scientists and researchers, tear down his factories and give his coal mines to Feliks.³  It's for the best. 

It has to be what's right.

But maybe Alfred still doesn't like it. Maybe there's still some part of him who wants to hand the Germans a little more than food. Maybe he does, and maybe that's why he's back outside Ludwig's door.

It's a different apartment now, smaller, squatter, but in all the ways that matter, it's exactly the same; brick and drab steel and somehow, still standing. And it's still the place where Ludwig resides. He takes the turn into the building and the steps up two at a time ( _ third floor, number seven _ ), pleased to find them swept and less paint coming off the walls. His feet still click on the concrete, the echo reverberating through the hall, but with them, the muffled sound of a mother chiding a child sings through the door, breaking the quelling silence. 

When he comes upon number seven, he pokes the doorbell and waits for the chime, the quiet between still weighted yet peculiarly familiar after his last visit to Berlin, yet it’s the silence that leads him to conclude that the doorbell has broken. He pulls his hand back and raps on the door in rapid succession, wondering idly how much fixing it would cost. He counts backwards from ten for no reason in particular, but the door swings open before he reaches two. He’s steeled himself for the tracing paper voice and hollowed eyes. He's ready for the gaunt figure and beaten posture, but that isn’t what greets him. 

He isn't ready. 

Not for the tear tracts and red rimmed eyes. Not for the remnants left behind after a long session of sobbing. 

God. 

No. He's still crying.

Alfred hurries forward, ignoring the look of horror on Ludwig's face as he processes who it is at his door, and pushes it wide open. He shuts it behind him, drops his bags and before he can stop to consider the situation, he extends his arms and wraps Ludwig up in a bone-crushing hug. 

He's thin as a noodle and about as sturdy as a house of cards. Ribs poke his chest, and Ludwig is shaking, but Alfred can’t find the will to care, not when Ludwig falls to sticks and canvas strips against him, not when his breath is coming only in rasps, not when it's far too simple to forget there's a man behind the nation while seated at plush chairs around hardwood tables, deciding the fate of millions with logic and numbers. 

It's easy to forget that this is what they’re doing to the Germans.

“Sh, sh, I've got you.  _ Christ, _ Ludwig, I should’ve known-” Alfred runs his fingers through the the loose locks of Ludwig's hair while the other remains planted firmly on his back. He speaks in German and tries to dispel the strain of guilt from his voice, Ludwig collapsing with the repercussions of his actions. Alfred will do anything to try and stop him from crumbling to pieces in his arms, whatever it takes to prevent him from being swept away by the draft with the dust on the floor.

_ “Tut mir leid.  _ I'm sorry.” Ludwig's skeletal fingers grip the fabric of Alfred's shirt, desperate like he's clinging to the last scrap of life in his now.

His now.

(Realization’s a slap to the face.)

Of course. 

To Alfred the future is more important than now because for him now is certain, but for someone like Ludwig, every day, every  _ now _ is uncertain. Now is a fight for survival. Now is what looms thick and black like building storm clouds overhead because for Ludwig, now is all that is. 

What is the future to a starving man? What is tomorrow to the dying? 

A gift. 

If it’s the last thing he does, Alfred will give this much to Ludwig if only to make up for this. He’ll ensure that that wretched plan⁴ doesn’t pass. 

Yet within the span of this embrace Alfred finds it's true what they say about time passing strangely with someone close. Maybe it's minutes. Maybe it's seconds, but he remains standing with a shivering German pressed against his chest and his hands threaded through his hair. The fresh scent of soap lingers on Ludwig’s skin, and his arms are bandaged with fresh gauze, yet despite the improved hygiene, he’s still fragile, skin and bones where Alfred knows there must’ve once been vigor and muscle. With each breath he takes, Alfred can feel his bones expand and contract, and when he begins to wonder how much Ludwig is eating, he's reminded once again of his self-proclaimed role as judge, jury and executioner and the bans he’s placed on Ludwig procuring anything more. He frowns at the thought.

Two more shaky breaths, and Ludwig pulls back, his eyebrows drawn up in mortification and his lips drawn thin. Alfred falls automatically into what he hopes is a comforting smile, Ludwig’s reaction to his comfort nearly equal parts heartbreaking and endearing. It's difficult to imagine how this could've been Nazi Germany barely a decade ago, but then again, life is full of surprises and not all of which are pleasant. 

Ludwig stops and wipes his tear stained face with a ragged sleeve, the tips of his ears lighting up with the faintest blush. “I'm sorry, I-”

“Hey, it's alright.” He sets his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. “I mean, sorry won't really bring back the dead, but it's-” He shakes his head, inhaling at his own lack of tact in the simplest of matters. “I mean, hey, this is fine, Ludwig. Don't apologize.  _ I’m _ sorry.” 

Alfred has been charged with rebuilding, renewing, remaking, but he’s only been killing them all slowly. 

Ludwig starts, brows still drawn. “America-”

“Alfred, Ludwig.” He doesn’t want the formality; not after that. “Call me Alfred.”

“Alfred, I- thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. I still have some talking to do with the bigwigs when I get back. We're bringing you more money, more food- no more starving.” Alfred finds the look of hesitant hope on Ludwig's face more than encouraging even if it is masked by skeptical disbelief mere milliseconds after it appears. “I swear it on the stars and stripes. Really, Ludwig, if I'd known…”

“Thank you.”

And in that moment, his heart flips, a gentle warmth tingling in his chest at Ludwig’s firm expression of gratitude. He holds to the hope blossoming across Ludwig’s face being well worth the hours he’ll inevitably spend arguing with his government officials to bring him back to his prime in both body and mind. Alfred knows just the man to approach,⁵ a man with ideas they should've listened to years before, but they needn’t worry. He'll make things right. 

A reminder sparks in his mind at the mention of right and food, and Alfred bends down to retrieve the bag discarded on the floor, propping it up on his knee and pulling chocolate from within it. He pushes the sweets out on the table, humming softly as he does, a medley of snacks and sugared treats lain out across its top. There are coffee beans and creamer and a little cake he bought from the old woman down the street, the ghosts of her wrinkled hands over his still lingering in his mind. It was more than overpriced, but he doesn't think it's any crime to splurge when the money goes to feeding a hungry mouth especially when it's Ludwig’s. He lingers for a moment on the folded napkin towards the bottom of the bag and breathes a silent prayer, understanding the likelihood of damage done to the fruits inside its folds. He pulls the napkin back to reveal cherries, bright red and smooth in the artificial light. He nearly laughs to find them still whole. 

“All for you.” He takes the liberty of looking up to Ludwig, and he isn’t at all disappointed. 

Ludwig looks as if he wants to gloss over into that state of half awareness once again, his hands slackening and his posture going stiff, but despite the conflict written across his face, he watches the food set on the table with palpable longing. Alfred grins as he moves to pick up the chocolate bar, his gaze set directly on Ludwig.

He peels back the wrapper and breaks off a square, gesturing him forward. “C’mere. Have a piece.”

Ludwig hesitates, the probable inner battle between chocolate and dignity seemingly escalating. He steps forward, his stride unsure, and Alfred smiles in encouragement, holding the chocolate towards him like a man luring a stray puppy with a scrap of meat. Ludwig is set in rigid lines, his stiff posture speaking to uncertainty, yet this is only further proof that he deserves a spark of joy in his life and something sweet to savor for the dreary hours. Alfred closes the distance between them and places a hand on his shoulder, startling Ludwig wide-eyed, and with feigned nonchalance, he brings the chocolate up to Ludwig’s lips, unsure himself of the method to his madness. 

“Open up.” He goes up on his tiptoes to meet Ludwig at eye level, something giddy building up in his chest. 

“Alfred…” His brow crinkles and his lips pull tight, the piercing blue of his eyes an almost challenge to look away, but Alfred only waves the chocolate with a flick of his wrist, his dimples deepening in his cheeks. 

“Come on, Ludwig. Just open up.”

Ludwig’s fingers twitch at his sides, still bandaged and scuffed, as he hesitates a moment longer, his Adam’s apple bobbing once as he swallows. With notable reservation, he parts his lips in a careful ‘o’ and waits, watching him in bafflement. 

Alfred pops the chocolate in Ludwig’s mouth, delighted to see the look on his face shift from miffed to blissful and the lines on his forehead smooth down in delight. The ever present tension in his shoulders and stance is momentarily absent as his eyes flutter closed, and a soft sound of contentment escapes from the back of his throat, Ludwig acquiescing at last to the chocolate goodness. Alfred breaks off another piece with a cheeky grin, inhaling the sweet scent rich in the air between them. 

“See, that wasn’t so bad! Nothing like all American chocolate hand fed to you by yours truly, huh? When's the last time you had chocolate?” 

He pauses. “I do not know.” 

“A damn shame.” He holds out the second piece, Ludwig's breath warm on his fingers. “If I'd known, I would’ve bought you a whole bag. In fact, fuck it all. Next time, I  _ will  _ bring you an entire bag of ‘em. Whaddya say?”

Ludwig's cheeks are flushed in embarrassment, but he appears more content than Alfred's ever seen him, writing him more answers than his words could ever give. It's far less of an effort to imagine that when he opens his eyes there won't be ash or lightning but the blue of ice floes there once must’ve been.

“I would like that.”

Alfred feeds him a cherry with the stem pulled off as soon as he finishes speaking, the little red fruit disappearing behind his lips with a pop. He offers one hand for the pit as he uses the other to pull a chair around for Ludwig to sit in. 

“Good because I will, and one of these days we'll have to take a trip over to my place, and you can have as much chocolate as you want. An entire factory’s worth- I’ll snag it if you ask.” He may be exaggerating, but Ludwig doesn't look like he cares. He pulls around a chair for himself and takes a seat, patting the table in front of him. “Sit, Lud! We haven't even started on the cake  _ or _ the coffee.”

Ludwig doesn't quite smile, but Alfred thinks there's something like water beginning to clear out the ash, the grime, the hollowness in his eyes. It's a step in the right direction, and that Alfred can live with because small steps are what take you up a mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ³ After WWII, German patents and researchers were confiscated by the Allied powers. Specifically, one could look to Operation Paperclip, where German scientists were covertly used by the US during the Cold War, and its Russian equivalent, Operation Osoaviakhim. Poland was also in possession of about a quarter of pre-war German territory, including some of their coal fields, at this time which is what Alfred is referencing. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Paperclip)] [[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Osoaviakhim)] [[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgenthau_Plan#Plans_for_German_industry)]_
> 
> ⁴ Alfred is referencing the then Secretary of State, General Marshall. He was one of the advocators of the Marshall Plan which was named after him and replaced the Morgenthau Plan after it was exposed as unrealistic. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_Plan)]_
> 
> ⁵ This is a reference to the Morgenthau Plan. The Morgenthau Plan was a proposal the American government, including then President, Roosevelt, advocated. It essentially sought to make Germany “primarily agricultural and pastoral in character” and to destroy all industrial opportunities within the country to prevent them from starting another war, but because of the ratio between the population and amount of viable land, implementing such a plan would have killed off 40% of the population. It was never put into effect. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgenthau_Plan)]_


	3. February 25, 1947

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely tags those of you who reblogged on tumblr added! Kudos and comments are both very much appreciated, and the aesthetic for this chapter is available [here](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/172325536502/expanse-its-irrational-bordering-on-idiotic). Love you all!

_February 25, 1947_

The room is blanketed with the buzz of self important men and nations alike, fine-suited politicians and bustling aides dropping the final pieces into place. The words falling from their lips are searing self-guided fate into the history of the world, decisions calling for radical reform where the unspeakable has been committed.  For most these meetings are a chance to write a line in the history books and keep another war out of them, but for Alfred, dumbstruck by the measures called for and the settlements reached, this room is a world suspended in time.

For him this is dead silence in a cold bitten forest. It's mortality like Gilbert is the dying stag bleeding red into the snow as he, the hunter, lowers this council, the gun.⁶

He doesn't dare meet Gilbert's gaze until the meeting’s closed. Not until after the verdict has been made and the look of sheer terror on Ludwig's face has frozen itself in time does he look over at the man who'd saved him from certain defeat some one hundred seventy years before.⁷ He knows they are their countries and without them they die. He knows he can't afford to reminisce when making decisions for the world's bettering, but he wishes Gilbert wasn't Prussia. He wishes the fire hadn't flashed across East Germany's eyes.

He pulls away from Gilbert's burnt stare and sweeps his gaze across the room. He glances off Arthur and Francis, conversing at the sides, to Ludwig, empty-eyed and stiff. He's drawn like a bow, his arms hanging limp and his jaw glued shut, and his eyes are locked to his brother, the blue clouded with emotion as if the clearing ash has been tossed back up once again. 

It's almost worse watching him, so he turns to Gilbert up ahead. 

He’s straight-backed and hard-eyed, his body a line of packed fire tensed in the middle of the room. The clenched fists at his sides remain the only sign of a reaction, and Alfred knows for a fact that they will get no more. Gilbert will maintain this soldier like discipline because composed and proud is the man he's always been, and while he muses that perhaps they might've gained more than just these terse, sardonic quips if Ludwig hadn't been present, he suspects that Gilbert would rather die than let his pride be stamped over. It's irrational, bordering on idiotic, but then again, the old nations are all just the same.

He pulls away from Gilbert and his ramrod bearing at the movement of something large in the corner of his eye. A man- Ivan at second glance- is in the process of standing, clothed still in that odd, old scarf and his military dress uniform with his hands clasped behind his back. Alfred hates that Ivan has resources enough to challenge him, hates that Russia is a player on the world stage, for if any of them are monsters, it’s Ivan and his cold, dead heart.

Men rush to and fro across his vision, Ivan clear in his place across the room. He edges ever closer to Ludwig, sirens blaring danger in Alfred's mind, and Alfred stands on instinct, toppling over his chair in his hurry. He snatches up the top of the hardwood chair before it hits the floor and rushes to follow, the atmosphere shifting as the steady look in Ivan’s eyes darkens. He should have naught to do with Ludwig when Ludwig is the responsibility of Alfred, Arthur and Francis alone, but irregardless of obligations or assignments, he wouldn't dream of subjecting anyone to Ivan’s presence after a meeting like this.

A fatal turn back of the head locks his eyes to Gilbert’s, and Alfred stops dead in his tracks, pinned in place via his unspoken directive. In Alfred’s peripherals Ivan sets a hand on Ludwig’s back and guides him out the right wing door, his shoulders thrown back and his gaze drilling forward. Alfred's fingers curl up in a fist at his side, his eyebrows drawing downward in aggravation. 

Gilbert approaches, settled in the same hard lines Alfred remembers from the days of misplaced latrines and bayonets used on kitchen duty, overriding the aggravation caused by Ivan’s most recent action and replacing it with subtle unease. Alfred isn't sure if he should be thankful that Gilbert hasn't bothered to plaster on the cruel smile he flashes for many of the Allied powers and their self-important politicians, or if this is a sign of worse to come. He drops his train of thought as Gilbert gestures for him to follow, turning promptly and striding towards the door. Alfred hurries after. 

They weave through the throngs of men and nations slipping out the exits, the sound of their shoes and chatter masking the rushing blood in his ears. He picks up to a jog, his steps rushed and his brows slanting upwards as they keep this pace to the corner. The cold air from the vents raises the hairs on his neck and goosebumps on his skin, and the thud of their boots on the ground echoes through the clinically chilled hallway. Dark wood doors loom like sentinels on the walls, stale air lingering throughout the entirety of the corridor. He swallows hard, plowing forward. 

Gilbert comes to a stop just ahead and faces Alfred, his hands folded behind his back and his expression stony.

“Jones. Do not lay a fucking finger on Ludwig. He's learned his fucking lesson. He just needs someone to pull him to his feet and keep the Russian bastard away from him.”

His voice is hard and level despite the implications of his words.

Gilbert's bound to be upset, bound to be ready to beat them all to a pulp if he could, but Alfred can’t find anything more than wisp of care in his tone. It's masked with too many layers of something colder. 

“Can I hear a yes, Jones?” Gilbert speaks slowly now, the drill sergeant tone fading into something slightly more human. His voice dips, and his eyes are far more open as the cured sheets of red peel away to reveal darkened pools of blood, dripping, dripping, dripping into something like a soul. 

It must be Ludwig, pulling up this thing like empathy.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it. I won’t let Ivan do jack shit to Ludwig, and also… uh, you know back there? Gilbert, I’m sorry. It wasn’t-”

“Hey, save it, okay? Let's go find, Ludwig.” Gilbert cracks into a shadow of a humorless grin, his tone not bitter as Alfred had expected but hollowed and strangely determined.

Alfred nods, waiting for him to lead the way.

They trudge down the last of the hall's length and round the next corner, entering in earshot of a dirty mix of multilingual curses. Ivan has Ludwig stopped, his hands circled around his wrists and his expression a mask of boredom while Ludwig seethes, swearing oaths in low Russian and German, his muscles tensed. Yet despite his obvious displeasure he isn’t bothering to pull away. Alfred assumes it’s because he knows there’s no chance of escape without a scene for as much as he’s loathe to admit it, Ivan is a superpower with no intention of letting go. For a nation like Ludwig, this spells a clear disadvantage.

Gilbert reacts, the shift in his demeanor seamless as the fire and fresh war Alfred remembers so well curls up on his face. 

Ivan spots them, and his lips curve up in a predatory grin. “Ah, look who has come to join in on the fun. Have you come to bid your dear brother goodbye?”

Alfred’s eye twitches.

Ivan’s nails are pressing too far into Ludwig’s wrists and his chest is set too close to Ludwig’s for anyone’s comfort, his proximity spawning something black in the edges of Alfred's vision. He stalks forward, irritation racing down his spine, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his arm. His knee-jerk reaction is to shove it off, to storm forward and slam Ivan against the wall and watch as his paint on smile melts off his crude cut features. But as red eyes and white hair catch his eye as Gilbert strolls past him, smile gone cold, he knows better than to interfere. 

“Do me a favor, Braginsky, and get the fuck off my brother.”

Ivan stops, pauses, his grip only tightening on Ludwig’s wrists. “I am searching desperately for a reason why I should listen to an ex-nation such as yourself, but I am tragically finding none. Try again, little ghost.”

“Try me.” Gilbert’s voice is low as he strides towards the pair of them, stopping with his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. “I'll go with you  _ nicely  _ if you get your hands off Ludwig and keep them the fuck off,  _ Russia.” _

It's impossible to tell which man's smile is colder. 

“Is this a deal I am hearing?” Ivan drops Ludwig's wrists and leers down at Gilbert like a vulture over a carcass. “Tempting, I must say. To be frank, Beilschmidt, it's adorable how your little brother looks more afraid than you. It seems you could not even teach him how to hide behind an ugly smile. Because that is all you're good for now, hm? Lost the war. Lost your country. Lost your-”

“Shut up, you son of a bitch.” Alfred snaps, closing the distance between them. Both Beilschmidt brothers look ready to sock Ivan in the jaw but  _ clearly _ , that's his job, not theirs. “Shut your fucking mouth and go suck a dick. I'm taking Ludwig. You take Gilbert, and we get the fuck out of each other's sight before I beat your ass in the middle of this fucking hallway.” 

“Someone is not ready to play nice.” Ivan feigns innocence with a raise of his brows and a second clasping of his hands behind him, his head tilted slightly to a side. “I sincerely hope you understand the enemies you make and the reputation you assume when you utilize such vulgar insults, but have it your way, Amerika. I will take the Prussian, and you will take Germany. Without any mess.”

“What do you mean take him?” Ludwig's English is still clearly wanting, his accent coming through in the hoarseness of his voice. “Should he not come with me? It makes no sense for him to go with Russia.”

“He is East Germany now. You are West Germany. I occupy the east, and Amerika takes the west, Germaniya. Did you forget to listen during the meeting? How unlike you.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Alfred says, “They didn't explicitly state anything.” 

“Watch your language. You don’t know who is listening.” Ivan smiles just as unnervingly as before and turns to Gilbert. “However, I believe we have delayed with enough chit chat. East, are you coming?”

“All in good time.” Gilbert returns Ivan’s ever present smile with an equal lack of warmth. With another miraculous shift, he offers Ludwig a gentle grin, slaps his back and salutes him with two fingers, stepping towards the exiting Ivan. “Take care, bud, and don't worry about me, okay? We'll see each other before you know it.”

“Gilbert-” Ludwig starts, but he’s turned, waving to Ludwig behind him as he leaves. 

Ivan slips a hand between Gilbert's shoulder blades and drops the other in his coat pocket, the sound of their boots beating out their exit and their uniforms a mask of dark against the whitewashed walls. 

Ludwig follows their exit with his eyes, the color fading from his face. 

Alfred runs a hand through his hair, the desire to pummel the smug smile off Ivan’s face and rescue Gilbert from a fate arguably worse than death growing exponentially with Ludwig's breaking composure, yet it's the selfish part of him whispering of Ludwig being whisked away in Gilbert's place that convinces him to refrain. It was quick, the dissolution, the resolution, even for him, and though he knows he could stop this if he truly wished, he can’t for this very reason. As much as he hates the look on Ludwig’s face mirroring the dead emptiness of this old building’s halls, he can’t afford to change the lives of millions for the sake of only one. Responsibility comes with influence, and he refuses to use it for himself, the man, when as himself, the nation, his people and the world need better. He wavers for a moment longer before concluding the past is better left alone when it cannot be changed. 

Putting on his best attempt at a smile, he side steps towards Ludwig and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Lud. Let me take you home.”

There's a moment of hesitation on Ludwig's face, but he nods, swallowing down the likely lump in his throat. “Yes. I am coming.”

He starts down the hall, and as Ludwig falls in step beside him, he pats his back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. 

He turns to face him, frowning in sympathy. “It probably doesn’t mean much to you, but I didn’t want that shit with dissolving Gi- Prussia. It’s shitty, and I’m really sorry, but Gil will be okay.” He aims for a smile. “Ivan’s a dick! But Gil's a tough guy, and I doubt this division shit will last all that long. I mean, the goal is to get you all back on track, and that's it. Done deal. I go back to my side of the pond. Ivan goes back to his shitty wasteland. 

“It'll be over before you know it, yeah? Just like Gil said.”

“Yes.” 

His voice is empty, and Alfred can’t say if he’s been convinced, but it's the best he can do for the present. There are plans to be carried out, people to persuaded and promises to keep. 

He can only hope and pray that Ludwig will adjust in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⁶ The Allied Control Council, composed of the Soviet Union, United States, United Kingdom and France, made the decision to carry out the formal abolition of Prussia on February 25, 1947. It was then that Prussia ceased to exist as a nation and became instead, the personification of East Germany. _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abolition_of_Prussia)]_
> 
> ⁷ Alfred is referencing the Prussian aid sent to America during the American Revolutionary War via Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian military general who helped whip the Continental army into shape. Baron von Steuben arrived at Valley Forge in 1778. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_Wilhelm_von_Steuben)]_


	4. December 31, 1947 - January 1, 1948

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gents (and lovely nonbinaries), this is the moment you've waited for... This chapter is the one I've been hyped for! I truly hope you all enjoy, and special thanks again to everyone who's taken the time to comment, leave tags or kudos, reblog or support in any way. Anything and everything is sincerely appreciated. <3 The aesthetic for this chapter can be found [here](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/172580682572/expanse-we-arent-like-the-greek-gods-or-some). Please enjoy!

_December 31, 1947_

The living room is practically empty, the only furniture plain wood chairs and a scuffed up table pushed neatly to the side. There’s no sign of habitation save a small stack of books by the cupboards, a pile of papers set atop the counter and a man hunched over at the table, picking over documents and legal forms. It’s neat; it’s orderly, but it’s bare and just a step above utilitarian minimalism thanks to the singular picture on the wall gifted to Ludwig by the boy next door. It’s not anything to call home, and it’s certainly not fit for a celebration.

Firstly, there isn’t a tree.

It’s still within the realms of the Christmas season, but Ludwig hasn’t bothered with any decorations. There are only white walls and flat counters, no trees or lights or sweet-scented wreaths hanging on front doors. There have been too many years without celebrating any real Christmas that he swears he’s forgotten how, and there’s too little spirit to call up any joy. Perhaps, things would’ve been different if his brother had been present, but Gilbert is cut off from him by a cold, metal fence, a mad scattering of armed Russian guards and the guilt of his failures. There’s no one else who will visit when nowadays the only one who knocks at his door is Alfred, and it’s rarely right to expect the world’s savior to spend the new year in his former enemy’s war torn city.

There will be himself and a beer if he’s lucky, no _sekt⁸_  or fireworks as he’s resigned himself to his fate. Maybe solitude is what he needs. He knows all too well it’s what he deserves.

It’s why the cheerful rap at the door comes as a surprise.

No one else knocks with the same enthusiasm as Alfred- not the men his government sends when the time comes to move, not Gilbert who’s gone anyways in more ways than one, not the sweet old woman in the apartment next door- but he doesn’t dare let himself hope. He knows he’s grown too attached to Alfred and his kindness, and it’s high time that poor flicker of hope clinging to life in his chest was put out of its misery. Yet he makes no move to stop his body when it begins to scramble up from the endless lines of marching print and creaking table to hurry towards the door. He steps through his drab, little room, swinging the door open with too much hope for a dreary winter day. He tells himself that Alfred won't be there and that wistful dreaming is pointless.

Only, not hoping becomes difficult when the very thing you'd hoped for comes knocking at your door in shiny, red-framed glasses and a sharp-looking suit. Alfred is standing at his door with an oversized bag in his hand, and the only thing Ludwig can do is wonder how in the world Alfred hasn't been pick-pocketed looking like he does.

He hovers in the doorway not entirely sure if his mind is playing cruel tricks on his tired eyes so that when he blinks old Ida will be standing in Alfred’s place.

“You’re here,” He says.

“Wow.” Alfred laughs, and it echoes down the hall in round, bright tones like a trumpet in the midst of a silent library.

As the sudden urge to clamp his hand over Alfred’s mouth overtakes him, he’s assured that this visit is real. It’s Alfred’s too-loud laugh and too-wide smile that he knows he doesn’t have the imagination to dream back up. They’re too big for his quiet, gray world and too wide for his tired mind.

Alfred adjusts the hat on his head, oblivious to his silent monologuing. “I didn’t know you wear glasses.”

He reaches up to his face, his expression twisting in confusion before he realizes that he is, indeed, still wearing his glasses. He clears his throat and opens the door further. “Yes. For reading.”

As Alfred makes his way inside, he slaps Ludwig goodnaturedly on the shoulder. “That’s cute. I wouldn’t peg you as one to be needing reading glasses already.” He sets his bag down on the table. “Recent development I’m guessing?”

“Yes. I have had them since the end of the war.” He shuts the door with a dull click and trails afterwards.

The government physician informed of his nation status suspects it’s due to the bombs, the hunger and the brutal dismantling of his means of production all across his country. He has scars, of course, but they say his eyesight has left him for these reasons as well. Ludwig suspects he may just be aging faster than they’d expected, but Alfred doesn’t seem to want to connect any of the deeper dots.

“Oh, wow. Stress maybe?”

“It’s a possibility.” He wants to tell him that’s not how it works, and it’s likely just another sort of scar, but he knows stories such as that garner pity and sympathy from people unused to failure where both are undeserved and unwelcome. He shifts the topic, pulling said glasses off and slipping them in their case on the table. There's little use for them now. “I thought you would be in New York for the holidays. Berlin seems like an undesirable destination.”

“Why? Don’t want me around?” Alfred leans up against the table, tossing his hat to the side, his gaze fixed on Ludwig in mild amusement.

“No. It’s not-”

“Nah, nah, I’m kidding, Lud. I’m pulling your leg.” Alfred slips his own glasses off his face, reaching in his pocket for a square piece of cloth. “I figured you’d be around and without any good company. Thought I’d change that. I mean, it’s the holidays! Let’s get some drinks. Have a good time. It’s almost the turn of half the century!”

“Turn of… half the century?” He repeats, frowning as he watches Alfred attempt to scrub his glasses clean with the cloth. He isn’t getting half the smudges, and to be frank, he suspects Alfred’s doing more spreading of grime than good overall.

“Y’know, like-” Alfred shrugs, moving to replace the cloth in his suit pocket despite his lenses being just as smudged as before.

Ludwig inhales, and before Alfred can finish replacing it or his sentence Ludwig reaches out and catches his wrist, plucking the cloth from his hand. He hesitates briefly as eye contact is made, but he ducks his head and begins to rub away the smudges, the tips of his ears going red.

“They are still not clean.” Ludwig clears his throat. “It’s a miracle you can see out of these.”

From the edges of his vision Alfred is staring at him with something like a squint and a smile. He’s found accidental social mistakes are best feigned as purposeful and left with as little reaction as possible, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and despite this belief, he risks a glance up and raises his brows. “What is so funny?”

“Oh, nothing! You’re just cute when you’re concentrating.”

He flushes, unprepared for such a response. Frightening maybe. Loathsome likely. But cute? He doubts he and that word fit together in the same sentence. Ludwig swallows hard as he hands Alfred’s glasses back. “Er, thank you- I suppose.”

Graciously, Alfred doesn’t respond right away. He slips his glasses back on and turns about to dig through the contents of the bag, whisking out champagne, party poppers and pastries from the seemingly endless abyss. “Yeah! Your eyebrows scrunch up, and you sort of look like you want to kill whatever you’re working on, but it’s in a good… in an endearing way…? It's cute.”

Ludwig lets the silence settle as he lacks a proper response, gathering up his papers and setting them on the counter. Once every paper is settled into a neat, little stack, Alfred moves his things out across the table, utilizing the space Ludwig’s freed up, a contented smile quirking up on Alfred’s lips. It’s a crime to call anything Ludwig does endearing when Alfred is standing right here, but he opts out of voicing this aloud and chooses the safer option.

“Thank you for coming, Amer- Alfred. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem! It seems wrong to leave a guy alone on New Year’s Eve. Also, by the way, are you okay with me staying over ‘cause-” He rubs the back of his neck with an awkward half smile. “I might have forgotten to book a room because I also might’ve forgotten to tell my government, so no one reminded me.”

“Alfred, that is irresponsible. You should not get into trouble to visit me though… I have no qualms against you spending the night.” His voice dips in concern. Alfred coming to harm because of him is the last thing he wants.

“It should be fine!” Alfred picks up the pen from the table and sets it on the counter, bumping his hip against Ludwig with a playful grin. “I’ve got things under control, and besides, it’s worth it even if the boss⁹ tells me off because I’d rather be here with you than off at some fancy dinner party with my government officials.” He takes a pause, color rising in his cheeks. “I mean, y’know, in a… not weird way, of course.”

Ludwig smiles despite himself at Alfred’s words. “Yes, Alfred. Clearly I would never suspect anything different.”

Alfred brightens in response, but before Ludwig can wonder why he's glad to receive his mildly sarcastic comment, Alfred throws up his hands in the air. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile!”

He begins to fall back into a questioning expression, but Alfred waves his hands in panic once more. “It’s not a bad thing! You have a nice smile, Lud. Smile more!”

“Ah- You, too.” Ludwig nearly chokes on his words, unable to express his appreciation in coherent form. The difficulty only increases as Alfred catches him with his expectant gaze, a smile spread easily across tanned features.

“You think so? If you keep this up, I might have to make smiling a habit.”

He sighs. “Alfred, you are already always smiling.”

“Huh, never noticed, I guess.” He pulls a tin of crackers from the table and offers one to Ludwig. “Want one?”

“Thank you.” He takes it. “But yes, you are always smiling.”

The only exceptions are in outrage or determination, the snarl manifesting in the presence of Russia and the cold setting in during war. In this way, Gilbert is his opposite, cold in anger, wildfire smiles in war. Ludwig is no less than a time bomb in both.

Alfred pops a cracker in his mouth, humming as he makes his way over to the radio, his jacket draped over the back of a chair and his hat now resting on the seat. “I guess-” He flips it on. “-I have a lot to smile about.”

It doesn’t click. Of all places, here should be where Alfred least wants to be. Here should be where Alfred least wants to smile. Ludwig should be a reminder of everything gone wrong in the world, a nuisance, a burden at best, but never something good, never something worth a smile.

Alfred twists the dials at the sides, his foot tapping against the floor as the low light casts shadows in the strands of his hair. The lines of his shoulders are distractingly obvious without the suit jacket to obscure them, and blended sounds of men and women speaking and singing garble into the mix of static on the radio. Music hums out from the speakers, the voices and static disappearing to reveal the sound of a man singing the blues.

_It’s early in the morning_

_It’s early in the morning_

_And I ain’t got nothing but the blues.¹⁰_

It’s American music, jazz, but Ludwig brushes it off and steps towards Alfred, stopping behind him as the sound of humming drifts through the empty air.

“I do not- Alfred. I do not understand.”

Alfred turns to face him, pausing his humming to raise a brow. “Whatcha mean, Lud?” He slips effortlessly into German. “Is German better?”

Ludwig must admit Alfred’s German is nearly flawless. He’s picked up quickly on the right inflections, the odd ways to twist one’s mouth to form the sounds, the lengthy words English speakers should have hell pronouncing. Alfred has a knack for languages, yes, but it’s not the language barrier keeping him from comprehending.

“No, I do not understand why you return when it is entirely unnecessary. I am not a prospective ally who needs to be charmed as under my circumstances I am… inclined to do as you say, and I have nothing to offer which you do not already have.”

_And I ain’t got nothing but the blues…_

“Lud…” Alfred lays a hand on his arm, staring him dead in the eye. It's sincere, unexpectedly so, and Ludwig is made painfully aware that Alfred, aside from Gilbert, is the only one who doesn’t look at him like he’s a monster or a pawn when even Roderich and Eliza barely look him in the eye.

Alfred exhales. “This isn’t about politics or payback or I don’t know, pity? I just think you’re a cool guy though I get it if it’s… weird? I mean, I guess I didn’t really think about you not wanting to see me, but I get it. If you want me to leave I can ‘cause I get it. I do.”

He doesn’t understand. The hand is leaving his arm as confliction continues to grow.

“You could do anything. Alfred-” He catches Alfred’s hand, hating the look of hurt on his face. “Do not leave. It is simply…”

Alfred hesitates, uncertainty in the place of anticipation on his face. Ludwig drops his hand, regretting his decision to attempt to explain. Maybe this is what Alfred has wanted all along, an excuse to leave while appearing as if he’d tried. Many of their kind would say it’s true; empires are all the same, but Ludwig foolishly prays that Alfred isn't that sort of man, yet it’s too odd to believe that the sun would wish to stay amidst the blackened sooty clouds as Alfred stays for him. It’s unfair to expect him to continue playing this game of pretend. He lingers in the low melody of the American jazz for Alfred to offer him a pitying look, turn on tail and stroll out the door, offering him nothing more than the memory of a tailored suit and flashing glass. But for the umpteenth time today, Alfred surprises him by stepping forward and taking his hands in his own.

The artificial light cuts shadows on Alfred’s tanned face, the lines and curves of his features impossibly close. For some inexplicable reason, Ludwig cannot find any anger, any malice, any pity in the warm blue of Alfred’s eyes, only uncertainty and quiet hoping. He looks at him like he’s real and human and not at all a man capable of mass destruction and war, like he cares about something more than just Germany and stopping a broken threat. His hands are warm around his own, and Ludwig is finally admitting to what he’s hoped isn’t true ever since Gilbert’s loss, but it is, and Ludwig is hopelessly in love with Alfred Jones.

“Ludwig.” Alfred says his name like a prayer, the syllables shaped with perfect Germanic intonation. “Don’t let me be your enemy.”

“I don’t- What are you attempting to gain?” He hates how his mouth forms words his mind doesn’t wish to say.

Alfred doesn’t miss a beat. “A smile. Your trust. The war is over. It’s done, and you just have to trust me when I say I know it’s all in the past.”

There’s a second of silence as the internal struggle continues. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t comprehend how this can be, but he’s asking why again, and this isn’t what he wants on New Year’s Eve. Alfred deserves better, and Ludwig is not that better, not when he’s burned worlds.

“It is not that simple. What good does it do for you to forgive me?”

“I don’t think what you did was even close to acceptable at all, but Ludwig.” _It’s like a prayer._ “You’ll waste away if you never forgive yourself. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, but if you know what you did was wrong, do your best to fix things, and put your everything into making sure it never happens again, you can change. You’re better than half of us if you’ve managed to even admit to fucking up. We aren’t like the… Greek gods or some shit. We’re people damn well as we are nations, and we can change.”

His brows draw inward, and his lips press thin. Maybe, maybe, if he hadn’t burned worlds. “No sane individual would have done what I did. I thought I was doing what was right for my people. I am unstable. I am lacking in sense.”

“Ludwig, you’re not unstable, not anymore than the rest of us. Honestly, you’re one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met.” Alfred squeezes his hands, and he’s reminded of the contact all over again. His hands are warm and calloused and strangely careful, and Ludwig is not prepared.

Alfred offers Ludwig a funny kind of smile, his lips quirking up in almost amusement. “I’m kind of jealous, you know? Sometimes, I feel like I’m playing at being someone I’m not especially with the whole world power thing going on. Am I a businessman? A politician? A farm boy?” He breathes out a laugh. “Sorry. Off topic. I’m rambling.”

“No, it is alright!” Ludwig doesn’t mind Alfred talking particularly when the lull in his confident reassurance brings his attention back to their held hands and that subtle human part of him basks in the reinforcement Alfred so freely bestows. If Alfred hadn’t begun to apologize, Ludwig doubts he would’ve been able to respond. He tears his gaze away as quickly as he can from Alfred’s hands wrapped over his own though the tips of his ears are still tinted red. “It is… Yes. Thank you.”

Alfred looks down at their hands, a sound between surprise and embarrassment escaping his throat. He releases his hands and laughs awkwardly, the dimples in his cheeks obvious in his flustered smile.

“Sorry. I forgot- Touching. Awkward. Yeah, do you want to, uh, sit down maybe?” He pulls out a chair, pausing before taking a seat. “Though, Lud, I really do think you’re great. Cross my heart.”

“I-” Ludwig offers a half smile, nodding and sitting beside him. “You would be a first.”

“We still have a few hours, like-” He checks his watch. “-three until midnight?”

Ludwig is not about to divulge that he does enjoy holding Alfred’s hands, so he nods in agreement, wondering how Alfred has chosen to spend his holiday with him out of all the people in the world. Alfred reaches back into the cracker tin, his cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

“I apologize.” Ludwig clears his throat. “I do not have anything entertaining to do. I was not expecting visitors.”

“You’re here!” Alfred procures a chocolate bar from the bag and pushes it towards him. “We can chat, and okay, I promise I tried to bring more chocolate, but-” He flips over the bag and shakes it, scattering at least ten or so more bars across the table. “I sort of had to make a last minute grocery store run because this was all kind of on a whim, and this was all there was.”

He attempts to veil his anticipation as it’s unclear the amount of damage his reputation will take should word get out that yes, Ludwig Beilschmidt has the world’s largest sweet tooth. With an inhuman amount of self control, he brings his expression back to polite appreciation and picks up the bar, unpeeling the wrapper.

“This is more than enough.” Just by scent alone, he can already taste the heavenly sweetness on his tongue. “You shouldn’t have, Alfred.” That’s a blatant lie, but there’s no harm in playing polite.

Unfortunately, either Ludwig isn’t as skilled at masking his emotions as he thinks, or Alfred has mastered the art of seeing straight through him because he only laughs.

“Sure thing, Lud, but I know you love my chocolate.”

“Well- Alright, that is fair.” He turns to hide his smile.

 

* * *

 

By ten ‘til twelve, Alfred has him talking about everything from his dogs to his childhood and a century that seems a millennia ago. Ludwig has nearly forgotten that English sounds like wood blocks dropping from his lips, and Alfred is his occupying force. It’s the most he’s talked in ages, but nothing about Alfred’s attentive gaze and encouraging comments suggests that his ramblings are unwelcome. It’s uncannily natural as stories of Gilbert, Francis and everyone in between are shared between the two of them though Alfred, a young nation himself, has made it unknowingly obvious that he’s lived for some two, two-and-a-half more centuries longer than Ludwig. His youth is now painfully apparent, but Alfred makes sure there’s little time for him to dwell on being the odd one out as he leans forward in his chair, his chin propped up in his hands.

“No way!” He says, “You actually told Roderich that?”

Ludwig feels a little swell of pride at Alfred’s reaction and preens ever so slightly. “I did. He was speechless.”

“Damn, Lud. That’s one hell of a mental image because Roderich doesn’t seem that scary, but I’ve heard he’s fucking commanding when he wants to be. You as a kid-” His brows shoot up. “-sassing that?”

“I cannot say I had the best self-preservation skills as a child, but yes. Roderich is a skilled fencer, and he has a knack for giving orders though it only exhibits itself occasionally nowadays.” Or he assumes it still must. He hasn’t had a genuine conversation with the nation of Austria since the middle of the war.

Alfred must sense a shift in his demeanor because he pulls out from the table and stands from his chair, hands planted on the table, fingers spread apart. “Say, Lud, Roderich’s the music guy, right?”

“Yes…?” He hesitates, suddenly wary of the smile Alfred is sporting.

“Great! Since he taught you piano, obviously, he must’ve taught you how to dance.”

Before he can process, Alfred is taking his hands once again, and he’s heaved up from his chair. There’s little point in attempting to stay seated as Alfred’s unnatural strength makes pulling him up look like he’s light as a feather, but words of denial still spill out from his mouth. If whatever he’s planning is what Ludwig suspects, nothing good can come out of this, nothing at all in fact, except sore feet.

“He did not teach me to dance! I cannot dance. Alfred-”

It’s a technical truth. Roderich had attempted to lesson him in the art of dance as in those days any parties of class required the skill, but Gilbert denied Roderich the privilege or, in Ludwig’s eyes, the pain. His brother had claimed Ludwig needed a genuinely skilled teacher, but in the end, even Gilbert, who to his credit was surprisingly graceful on the dance floor, hadn’t been able to save him from his terrible case of two left feet.

Alfred is deaf to his protests, grinning as the dimmed light glances off his lenses. “Lud, you always say stuff like that, and then it turns out you’re great. You want to lead, or…?”

“I cannot lead, Alfred! I cannot even dance.”

“Great! I’ll lead then.” He tugs him towards the center of the room, and Ludwig finds he has little time or motivation to protest.

Alfred smiles at him in encouragement and drops one of Ludwig’s hands to a place on his waist. The radio is still humming in the background, the end of the previous song settling into momentary silence as a new one rises in its place by the time they’ve reached a proper spot. Alfred sets Ludwig’s hand on his shoulder and begins to sway, singing along with the radio. His heart is pumping blood to his ears, the odd rush of adrenaline spiking as Alfred begins to step in perfect time with the music, the words of the song ricocheting against the walls of his heart.

Alfred begins to sing along.

_“Have I told you lately that I love you?_

_Could I tell you again somehow?”¹¹_

He leads them slowly across the living room floor, not batting so much as an eyelash when Ludwig stumbles over both their feet.

“You’re doing fine!” He hums between the words, his gaze set directly on him. “Is this okay? ‘Cause if you really don’t want to we can definitely stop.”

Ludwig’s heart yells yes. Yes, it’s more than okay for Alfred to have his hands on his waist and for his warm blue eyes to be fixed directly on him. In all truth, it’s practically ideal. His mind, on the contrary, is kicking and screaming for him to get out before he’s in too deep. Staring too closely at the curve of Alfred’s lips played up in that easy, all-American smile is a recipe for disaster. He’s estimated he has roughly three seconds left of Alfred staring at him like he’s the world before he’s fallen too far, two seconds left if he begins to sing once again.

“It is fine.” He chokes out, and Alfred sweeps him seamlessly across the room, contentment washing over his handsome features. The tone of his singing takes a more dramatic flair, and Ludwig can only assume that this is his show tune voice.

_“My world would end without a memory of you._

_I’m no good without you anyhow.”_

Ludwig is melting, and he knows he’s already lost the battle. Alfred’s voice is warm like his eyes, careful like his hands and soft like his smile. It’s not anything for a record on the top hits list of the year, but the music undoes his walls and tugs him closer to the safety of Alfred’s arms. For once, the dim light in this rundown little apartment translates to ambience rather than a call for maintenance, the scuffed floor serves as a stage rather than a prison, and the closed curtains cloak them in amicable dimness, Alfred the only living thing in his mind. Alfred brings him towards him with a bit of a spin, his breath hitting his neck in warm puffs.

_“Have I told you lately that I love you?_

_My darlin’, I’m telling you now.”_

The sound of their footsteps padding against the floor punctuates the words of the song, the elegance of Alfred’s movements more pronounced the less Ludwig stumbles.

_“Have I told you lately how I miss you_

_When the stars are shining in the sky?_

_Have I told you why the nights are long when you’re not with me?_

_Well, darlin’, I’m telling you now.”_

The sincerity in his voice, the intensity of his eyes; he’s almost convinced that Alfred means the message the song conveys. Alfred resorts to humming as the song continues, but never do his eyes leave Ludwig’s face, fixed on him with more genuine adoration and attention than Ludwig has ever been looked at in his life. But he muses it may just be his imagination. It’s far past his bedtime, and he may have had one too many glasses of champagne. His mind is admittedly muddled.

The clock on the wall announces that time is nearly up. The song will end. The new year will strike. They’ll head to bed, and this will be just another rose-tinted memory, another fantasy dream, by tomorrow night, and Ludwig will return to his papers and drab, gray world.

But as the music softens, and the notes lengthen, lingering with the singer’s voice, Alfred moves their held hands up to his shoulder, placing Ludwig’s hand atop it, moving his to Ludwig’s waist. His hands seep their warmth through his shirt, and suddenly, he’s closer, the blue of his eyes swallowing Ludwig’s entire universe. The final words of the song leave his mouth in hushed tones, the gold of a million worlds floating off his lips.

_“Oh, have I told you lately that I love you?_

_Oh, darlin’, I’m telling you now.”_

_January 1, 1948_

And then the world flips upside down.

There are warm lips on his own, the taste of champagne on his tongue and the press of red-framed glasses against the bridge of his nose.

Alfred Jones is kissing him. He’s being kissed by Alfred Jones.

It’s over too soon, the cyclone of emotions indistinguishable between the shock, the joy, the disbelief and outrage. He’s pushing Alfred out to an arm’s length before there’s time to think, the room unnaturally quiet as the notes drop dead. White noise hammers in his ears. Alfred’s _kissed_ him.

 _“You…”_ It comes out in German, and it’s only then that Ludwig realizes that somewhere along the way Alfred has shifted from a _sie_ to a _du_.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked-” Alfred’s red in the face, the words rushed and cobbled together in a frantic apology as he slips out of Ludwig’s grip. “I just thought…”

But it isn’t that, and Ludwig refuses to allow him to be the only one taking chances.

He closes the distance between them and takes Alfred’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. Alfred smells faintly of cologne and chocolate, and in the instant their lips meet, his eyes flutter closed. Alfred's hands return to his hips and tug him up against him, his body warm and unexpectedly soft. Pleasure like waves roll over him, and where they touch are star spots and summer songs. Alfred is galaxies, and just momentarily, he swears he's seen the entirety of the universe, stardust fluttering in his chest. The kiss lasts only seconds, Alfred pulling away with a breathy laugh.

“Happy New Year’s, Luddy.” He grins, face flushed pink, hands still set on his hips. His glasses are pushed crooked on his face.

“Oh-” Ludwig's cheeks are still burning and his lips, hot. Never in a million years did he dream of this ever occurring. “Happy New Year’s to you as well. That was, ah… unexpected.”

Alfred slips his hand from his hip to his arm, his smile almost wider than his face. “Really? I mean, do you guys not have the whole kissing at the stroke of midnight here?” He’s running his hand down Ludwig’s arm, and while Ludwig doesn’t know if it’s purposeful, it’s horribly distracting. “Though fuck. Wow. Best New Year’s kiss ever. I don’t think I’ve ever really kissed someone I actually… like a lot? For New Year’s?”

“This is a tradition?”

He must’ve betrayed his uncertainty through the tone of his voice because Alfred rolls back on the balls of his feet with a chuckle and launches into an explanation. “Yeah! Yeah. Back home we kiss on New Year’s to avoid loneliness in the coming year, but there’s-” He blushes, the color in his cheeks obvious despite the dim light. “-well, there are stories that say a kiss at midnight will strengthen a budding romance which I’m sure you know, but not that I’m trying to- or… I mean, I’m guessing you like me since you kissed me again, but people say I have a habit of reading things wrong, and-”

“Alfred, I am attracted to you which-” He's blushing bright red. He can’t believe he’s saying this aloud. “-which should be obvious after that, yes. What are you attempting to imply?”

“I mean, I like you, too! You’re cute and sweet and funny and well, yeah! Really fucking handsome, and wow.” Alfred runs a hand through his hair, looking down to their shoes with a laugh. “I must sound like an idiot. Can we pretend that I’m drunk even though I’m actually one hundred percent sure I’m not?"

“You… You are kidding.” If he hadn’t been holding Alfred, he would’ve facepalmed at his own lack of tact.

“No. _Jesus,_ Lud. No, I’m not kidding. You’re- you’re _you._ I don’t get how you don’t realize it. You’re such a talented, interesting, sweet, sweet person, and yet you think you’re some sort of wack job? If either of us are crazy, I’m the crazy. I mean-”

Ludwig kisses him again, and this time when he pulls away Alfred only drops his head against Ludwig's shoulder and laughs into his shirt.

“Do not insult yourself, or I may have to fight you for your honor.” Ludwig smiles down at the head of golden blond leaned up against him, taking the chance to move back stray hairs out of Alfred’s face.

“Ludwig. Lud. _Luddy.”_ Alfred snorts, glancing back up at Ludwig, his glasses pushed even more askew. “If we made that a thing I would be fighting you every other sentence because you’re always taking jabs at yourself. I’m down for kissing instead though. Good idea, huh?”

Ludwig rolls his eyes as Alfred pulls him back in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⁸ Sekt is German sparkling wine. _[[x](http://www.germanwines.de/knowledge/wine-more/sparkling-wine/)]_
> 
> ⁹ In the year 1947, Harry S. Truman was the president of the USA. Thus Alfred is making a reference to Truman who would’ve been his boss. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_S._Truman)]_
> 
> ¹⁰ “Early in the Mornin” by Louis Jordan was a popular jazz song in the 1940s. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_in_the_Mornin%27_\(Louis_Jordan_song\))]_
> 
> ¹¹ “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” by Scotty Wiseman was a popular love song in the 1940s. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Have_I_Told_You_Lately_That_I_Love_You%3F)]_


	5. June 24, 1948

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta reader, [Rainy](https://regneriisch.tumblr.com), for rephrasing pretty much all of Arthur's dialogue to sound authentically British! Shoutout to my IRL friend who beta read the first three chapters for me, and of course, a very special thank you to all of you who have continually supported this fic through your comments, reblogs, tags, kudos, etc. It means the world to me, and I'm sending my love to you all! <3 Buckle up though! We're hitting the Berlin Blockade with the next few chapters. ;) 
> 
> The aesthetic for this chapter can be found [here.](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/172810228737/expanse-careful-now-jones-youll-never-win-if)

_June 24, 1948_

The artificial light casts yellow over the haphazard stacks of papers, scrawled messages and matter-of-fact telegrams announcing that the situation has only escalated. The blinds are drawn, and the overcast clouds hang heavy over the city, the sky muted and dim despite the near noon hour. Alfred is miles away from the blocked roads and Soviet soldiers halting the Allied transports to Berlin, dreary London and dreary papers tying him to this desk like rain anchoring the storm clouds overhead. Here, he hunches over the disarray, his shadow blurred against the carpeted ground. His fingers dig uselessly into the surface of his desk, and his hand grips the microphone of the radio, his knuckles gone white. His vision's still red with the outrage Ivan’s actions have called down upon him, and Alfred is itching for action.

He curses beneath his breath, processing somewhere in the back of his mind that he will crush this microphone into dust with a mere modicum more of pressure. He figures it may be a subtle sign from fate if contact with Russia is cut off before it’s even established, but today, fate won’t receive a helping hand. Alfred is too tired of wasting away at a desk while a storm brews electric on the horizon to destroy the slim chance of taking action he has. He loosens his grip on the microphone and pulls it up to his lips, the edge of anger cutting lightning cracks in his voice.

“Braginsky. I know for a fact you’re on this fucking channel.” He hates how he can hear his heart in his ears. “We need to talk.”

He releases the button, dropping silence like a cannon in the midst of the empty room. There’s nothing, not even static, evident between the muffled steps of the people passing by his door. It crackles like the storm overhead, blinding and silent, and his fingers tighten around the device. Ivan is playing with him, and he knows it, the itching desire to hurl the radio clear across the room mounting and the hand planted on his desk edging closer to the body of the radio. It’s been days without a response from Ivan himself; only aides who repeat that their nation is unwilling to speak in broken, butchered English. It grates on him like nails to a chalkboard; Ivan is perfectly aware that he’s fluent in Russian.

Alfred grits his teeth and moves to replace the microphone on his desk. An hour; he’ll give it an hour, but after that, he fears his patience will be lost, and out will go this hulking piece of metal to join the rest of this bleak English city.

“Do not do anything rash, Jones.”

Ivan’s voice echoes like the first thunder clap of the storm, his tone impossibly smug. Alfred can nearly see his lips curl up in that sick, sick smile as he leans into the mic, his scarf falling against the table.

 _“Fucker.”_ Alfred hisses beneath his breath, pressing the button with unnecessary force. The winds rise up in gales as the rain begins to fall in the storm of his mind. “Rash is your department, you asshole. That's what I'd call the _shit_ you’ve just pulled.”

“Mm, and you call yourself a nation. You seem very intent on contacting me. Has no one been present to tuck you into bed?”

“ _Fuck_ you. You know that’s not what this is about! I want to know what the hell you’re thinking, blocking us off from everything. Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?”

Ivan responds in his native tongue, not bothering to accommodate for Alfred any longer. His tone shifts sarcastic, victory hot in his tone. “You’re so young, America- so much passion without any forethought. Surely, you understand what I’ve accomplished.”

“What? The starvation of Germany?¹² Is that what you’re so smug about? You-” He growls in the back of his throat, releasing the button, as his heart hammers in his ears. There is so much more he wishes to say, but the words refuse to pass from his mind to his mouth as anger wipes them clean from his lips.

“Careful now, Jones. You’ll never win if there isn't any thought to your words and your actions.”

Alfred exhales, fingering the button on the mic as Ivan continues. Only curses boil up on the tip of his tongue.

“However, if you have nothing constructive to say, I have greater things to accomplish than entertain little power-drunk boys. Do take time to relax, Jones. Who knows when your superiors will give the orders to remove yourself from Germany?”

Ivan clicks out, and Alfred does nothing to stop him, the silence coming down in torrents of muting rain. The anger drips down to the soles of his feet, pooling in the shape of regret over his actions and his inability to snap his fingers to fix this European mess. He’s accomplished nothing by cursing at Ivan over a static-filled radio, not when he knows solutions, not momentary satisfaction, is what he and the rest of the West need.

He tosses the microphone down on the table and shoves his papers into his briefcase, fresh irritation surging through his veins. He doesn't need to hear Ivan’s voice to know the storm is still raging. He snaps his case shut and strides out the door, his jaw clenched and his teeth gritted.

The hall is packed with throngs of aides, secretaries, soldiers and politicians alike, all strung out with stress and a lack of sleep. They hurry down the length of the hall, the artificial lights casting an unnatural sheen on their pallid faces, their faces drawn and their lips pulled thin. He knows he’s expected to smile like the self-proclaimed beacon of hope America is while everyone else is cursing a deluge on the Russians, yet in the present, even Alfred feels like scowling to the ground.

But for the tired, young aides and the overworked secretaries, he manages a nod and half of his usual flashing smile. At the few he receives back, his spirits lift, the efforts at kindness reminding him there’s always room for optimism in place of anger. To dwell on Ivan is to let the Soviets win, and Alfred refuses to give him that any longer.

He stops at the door he needs and tries the handle, running a hand through his hair. When he finds it locked, he knocks, the realization that his hat is tossed somewhere on his desk hitting him a minute too late.

“It’s not open? Jesus. Fucking-” Arthur grumbles from behind the door, swinging it wide open.

He’s a mess, the wild strands of his dirty blond hair sticking up in all imaginable directions and his chin peppered with two-day old stubble. Miraculously, his buttons have been done up in the proper way, but his shirt isn’t tucked in his pants. Behind him, Alfred can see the still smoking remains of a cigarette butt jammed in an ashtray and a wilder scattering of papers than even his own. Alfred snorts, his mood considerably improved by the fact that while he’s still presentable enough to appear outside his door, Arthur looks like the very “cat lady” persona he strives to deny.

“Hey, Art. Looking pretty swell, I see!” He pushes his way in through the door frame, ignoring Arthur’s grunt of protest at being shoved past. “How’re things looking?”

“Piss off.” Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose, blinking at the ground as he shuts the door behind him. “I am pleased to inform you of some good news.” He moves over to his desk and spreads out the papers atop it, pointing at a sheet of calculations with a purse of his lips. “They think we can pull off the airlift.”

Alfred's shoulders slump in relief. Here’s his chance to drive back the storm at last. “It’s fucking time they finally listened. And Mattie? Did they ask him yet?”

“Something like that.” He gives a wry smile. “He told us we need to, and I quote, ‘stop going behind his fucking back’ if we want his assistance.¹³”

Despite the mental image of Matthew chewing out Arthur being more than amusing, Alfred groans. “Ugh, I mean, I can’t even argue with that, but shit, we really need all the help we can get. If we’ve run the numbers…” Alfred reaches for the paper on the desk, skimming the lists of data. “Yeah. Yeah. Hm. Fuck, I’ll trust them on this one as long as they give me a goddamn plane and let me fly in with the other pilots.”

“Why do you give a damn? There’s no need for you to waltz in there with that bloody smile on your face, flirting with the women as if it’ll save face with the media. Won’t they be needing you back here?”

“But-”

Arthur tuts, cuffing him on the back of his neck halfheartedly. “Don’t tell me you tried to radio Russia again. How many times must we tell you it does no one any good for you two to interact more than necessary? Damn well he may have gotten cocky-” He sighs. “Well, never mind. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Alfred rubs his neck, a sore expression on his face, as he nods in agreement. Arthur can’t blame him, not when he would’ve done the same thing in his position, yet before he can open his mouth, Arthur scowls down at the papers and shuffles them into a neater pile as he speaks.

“Still. Do try and keep your wits about you. Who knows who’s listening in to those conversations of yours? I doubt either of you are careful enough to be discreet.”

“Art, please.” He leans against the desk and sets his briefcase atop it, his free hand hooked in his pocket. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve got this shit together. Fucking Ivan thinks he can take Berlin from us just by blocking a few routes?” He snorts. “In his fucking dreams.”

“They’ve blocked them _all_.” Arthur rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Either way, good luck convincing them to let you fly. You know how finicky they can be.”

“And you know how persuasive I am when I want to be. I’ll work things out.” He leans over and pops the latch on his briefcase. “I can’t afford to lose Germany.¹⁴”

Arthur shakes his head. “Mind your head- for your sake as much as everyone else’s. Christ, if it were up to me…” He trails off, pushing back at the spread of paper.

“If it were up to you, I’m sure you’d still be the grand and glorious British Empire with half the world wrapped around your little finger and the other kneeling at your feet.” Alfred reaches for the pack of cigarettes on his desk, pulling a lighter from his pocket. “I know you guys- you, Francis, Austria, Hungary, you name it- wish you had the power and influence and more backing than a reputation of what you used to have, but hey, Artie, shit happens. The world moves the fuck on, and we go on with our lives.¹⁵”

“Oh, as if you have any idea!” He snaps, bristling at Alfred's words. “Go stick your nose in matters you know something about.”

But Alfred knows that in this world, ever-changing, ever-evolving, empires become dependents and men become shadows at the bat of an eye. It came for Rome; it came for Arthur. He can only assume that someday it’ll come for him, and someday sooner, for Ivan, but not before he rebuilds the world, not before he shows them what vision really is. He's different from the rest of them; a beacon of hope in a broken world, a city on a hill.

He shrugs in response, lighting up his cigarette.

“Sorry, Art.”

“I don't know why I bother.” His voice has gained a brittle edge. “Just look at the papers. I refuse to argue with you about things you'll never understand.”

“I mean, if treating me like a kid helps you patch up your ego, that's cool.” He holds out the pack, kicking one leg over the other. “You want one?”

“Of course I want one, they’re _my_ cigarettes.” Arthur snatches up the pack and lighter from his hands. “Nice to see you took etiquette to heart.”

“Nice to see you're still touchy about everything.”

Arthur throws him a withering look, the bags beneath his eyes emphasizing his glare. He tosses him a wink, watching idly as Arthur lights himself a cigarette and takes a heavy drag.

The smoke curls up in a cloud as he exhales, his back silhouetted against the gray sky and city and his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. He's notably smaller than Alfred, thinner, at least three inches shorter, but like most of the nations, his posture remains as impeccable as a soldier's even in idle stance. It's something Alfred's never learned to adopt in everyday life for more than one reason, but unlike a century ago, it no longer scares him into submission. Arthur doesn't have the heart to cause him any real harm and lacks the ability even if he wished it. He's no longer the empire he once was and Alfred, no longer the farm boy, trembling in his trousers. He's not afraid, not when Arthur has never had the innate command someone like Gilbert possesses.

Alfred takes a drag on his own cigarette, the smoke in the room thickening as it settles in a screen between them. He steps up to the desk and strolls towards the window, fiddling for the latch. The storm clouds are thick overhead.

“Leave it. It’s going to rain.”

“We’ll close it if it does.” Alfred puffs on his cigarette as he pulls the window open with his other hand, the squeak of the rubber lip piercing the relative silence and the sharp scent of rain wafting in with the breeze. The smoke swirls between them, broken up in spirals by the wind. A bird cries as it passes, and the cars beneath rumble past on the asphalt roads. He's unsurprised to see the razed parts of the city, buildings crumbled to nothing and city blocks wiped off the map. It’s unfortunate, and irritation threatens to dance down to his fingers, but none of them need worry for long. America will build the UK back up into something its citizens will be proud to be a part of.

Arthur huffs behind him, tearing his attention away from the London sitting outside the window. He turns back in time to find Arthur pulling on a sweater.

“Are you actually cold?”

“Don’t start. You can’t tell me you’re unaware of how heat loss works. Just because you’re carrying enough weight to build yourself a personal furnace, it doesn’t mean the rest of us are so lucky.”

“Guess we can’t all have fantastic physiques.” Alfred replies airily, pretending not to glance down at his waistline. He knows he has a good fifty pounds on Arthur, but he sincerely hopes it’s got more to do with muscle than fat.

“Do we plan on reviewing anything else or are you simply going to waste the morning _smoking_?”

Alfred lets the question settle like the smoke, the first droplets of rain hitting the screen by the wind. As one is blown in his direction moisture hits his cheek, the water dripping down his jaw to his chin. He waits for Arthur to look prepared enough to speak once more before exhaling smoke with a question.

“Art, you ever been in love?”

He sputters, coughing out the smoke he’s just inhaled, his eyes bulging. “Sorry, _what_!?”

“You heard me.” Alfred leans against the window, careful to have his back against the glass and not the screen.

“Well, I-” He waves the hand with his cigarette, the end burning red. “This isn’t relevant- just focus on what we _actually_ have to do instead of giving me an even bigger headache _._ ”

“Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I want to know.”

Arthur hesitates briefly before his shoulders slump in acquiescence, and he takes another drag. The smoke rushes out of his mouth with a sigh too large for a man of Arthur’s stature, the centuries weighing down his voice. He lets his hand fall limp to the desk, his fingers drumming once, twice, his gaze pointed straight to Alfred. “Yes. I have. Happy?”

An inkling of curiosity crops up on Alfred’s face as he leans slightly forward. “Fuck no, now it’s interesting. Tell me more. What was she like? Or what was one of them like? I’m guessing there’ve been multiple ‘cause you’re old as balls.”

“Alfred, I’m not _quite_ that old. And no, absolutely not! I’m not going to to spin you dramatic stories about my love life just so you can run off and tell the world. However.” He offers him an almost smirk. “If you’re looking for romance advice from someone far wiser and more experienced than yourself, you could’ve just asked.”

Alfred forces a laugh. “What? Why would I ask you, the most emotionally constipated guy I know, for relationship advice? I’m not aiming for social suicide. C’mon, show me that other stuff you mentioned.”

He rubs his palm on his pant leg, the surface damp from either rain or sweat, as Arthur takes his sweet time to answer. Surely, that isn’t what his mind was attempting to accomplish, not when he knows it can’t be like this. No, the man the world looks up to must have it all figured on his own especially in things as elementary as romance.

Arthur taps a finger on a folder, self-satisfied in his smirk. “Of course. Silly of me to make assumptions. Let’s review pages upon pages of numbers instead.”

Alfred turns about and shuts the window with a click.

“Yeah. That’s the plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹² On June 24, 1948, the Soviet Union enacted the Berlin Blockade. The Soviets presumed that if they blocked the Allies from accessing the Western sectors of Berlin via railway road or canal, they would be forced to withdraw, leaving the entirety of Germany for the Soviet Union, or forced to agree to their terms- withdrawing the newly introduced Deutsche mark. This is why Alfred references starving the Germans out as the Allied Powers were unable to transport supplies into Germany on land. Notably, it was one of the first international crises of the Cold War. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade)]_
> 
> ¹³ Initially, Canada refused to aid in the Berlin Airlift, which was the proposed solution to delivering supplies but not by land, because they hadn’t been consulted in the matter, and the risk of starting another war was fairly high. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade)]_
> 
> ¹⁴ In the words of General Lucius D. Clay, the man in charge of the U.S. occupation of West Germany: “There is no practicability in maintaining our position in Berlin and it must not be evaluated on that basis.... We are convinced that our remaining in Berlin is essential to our prestige in Germany and in Europe. Whether for good or bad, it has become a symbol of the American intent.” And in my own words: “Alfred’s gay for Ludwig but also cares too much about his reputation.” _[[x](https://books.google.com/books/about/Airbridge_to_Berlin.html?id=iAUsAQAAMAAJ)]_
> 
> ¹⁵ After World War II, the UK experienced a sharp decline in its influence and power. With the loss of India in ‘47 and the lack of resources to rebuild thanks to the draining nature of the war, the UK was forced to accept aid from the USA and struggle to hold onto what was left of its empire. By the Suez Crisis in ‘56, the UK was further and more finally disillusioned with its status as an empire. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_history_of_the_United_Kingdom_\(1945%E2%80%93present\))]_


	6. August 1, 1948

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Thank you for your support, and I love you all dearly. Feedback is more than appreciated whether it be here or on tumblr, and I hope you enjoy this update! The aesthetic for this chapter may be found [here.](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/173054959947/expanse-men-who-refuse-to-face-the-reality-of)

_August 1, 1948_

April.

He's been silent since April.

The mailbox is devoid of letters marked American. Only the usual business is present in the cold, metal compartment. Stray leaves spin down from the newly planted tree outside his apartment, spiraling down to the sidewalks as the streets swarm with people scattering to their homes. A crow cries overhead, and a car accelerates down the street mixed with the muted sounds of Berlin life beating a steady rhythm in his head. Ludwig exhales, pulling his suit jacket further down on his arm and pushing closed the mailbox door.

Between the January kiss and the signing of the Marshall Plan,¹⁶ Alfred’s letters had remained a constant. From handwritten notes slipped in the folds of official envelopes and napkins wedged between the pages of formal documents, Alfred had painted Ludwig a picture of his life hopping from New York to London to Paris and back again. Once Alfred had gone as far as to send a sketch of a rose coupled with an apology for being unable to provide the real thing, and when it’d fallen from Ludwig’s folder in the middle of a meeting, he’d sworn the entirety of Berlin could’ve seen the flush in his cheeks.

Yet all of a sudden, they’d stopped.

Ludwig had been faithful in penning his responses, tucking each of Alfred’s notes and letters neatly into his sock drawers once he’d read them through once… or twice, but when they’d ceased, he’d wasted hours combing through papers and envelopes in search of Alfred’s hard-pressed, scrawling script when it should’ve been simple to find. Ludwig won't deny he misses him, but this situation isn’t at all unexpected.

The presence at his back is what strays from the norm.

The offset beat of boots on pavement alerts him to the disturbance, the hairs on his arms raising into goosebumps and the low bustle of the city dropping against the sudden silence. The birds fall mute, the sound of traffic inexplicably softer than before. He’s well aware that no average mortal could excite this much distress- it's the work of only a nation, and by the sound of their footsteps, one he can’t identify by footfall alone. His heartbeat thrums impossibly loud in his ears, drumming like thunderclaps on an empty plateau. He stiffens as the figure nears, a flicker of suspicion igniting in his mind.

A hand claps forceful on his shoulder, and warm air hits the shell of his ear, the sheer size of the man behind him betraying his identity.

“Hello, Germany.”

_Russia._

His breath catches in his throat.

“Good evening, Russia.” Ludwig says, the Russian awkward and rolling off a tongue used to harsh, clipped syllables. The sound of Ivan’s voice alone is enough to draw Gilbert’s farewell hot across his mind.

“Mm, a shame.” Ivan straightens up behind him, placing two hands on his shoulders and turning him forcibly in the direction of his apartment. “Your brother's Russian is much better than yours, yet you seem to be much more fond of what I represent.”

Ludwig swallows hard, dark spots bursting across his vision as revolt like acid and bile crawls up in his throat. The protesters’ unwelcome anthem rings in his ears as Ivan’s grip seeps like ice through his dress shirt. He can't control what he is, not when Ivan is what pockets of his people truly desire.¹⁷

“Let's go inside, Ludwig. Talking is always better done inside.” Ivan guides him towards the door with more force than necessary, Ludwig stumbling but obedient. There’s little else for him to do in a situation such as this.

They move up the stairs in silence, Ludwig, first, and he only dares glance back once, greeting Ivan’s half-smile with a rapid glance away.

“Go ahead.” Ivan hums when he stops at the top of the stairwell, gesturing ahead of them. “Shall we go to your apartment?”

His request is anything but, and with this knowledge in mind, Ludwig starts towards his door. There’s no one in the hallway, something for which he is simultaneously grateful and disappointed. It’s silly- he knows they wouldn’t be able to do a thing to save him- but the sinking feeling in his gut seems intent on expanding at the recognition of his solitude. He manages the door without fumbling, but before he can step to the side to allow Ivan to enter, Ivan sets his hand on his back and ushers him in. He shuts the door behind them and strides up to the table, similar to Alfred on the most surface of levels, but while Alfred offers shining confidence, Ivan offers suffocating control.

He seats himself at the table, kicking his feet atop it. “Come. Sit, Germany. I have a proposition for you.”

Ludwig does his best not to wince at Ivan’s boots on the table, sliding into the seat across him. He sets his mail down to his front and twists to hang his jacket on the back of his chair. Hands folded on his lap, he addresses Ivan, keeping steady eye contact.

“Russia. What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to address a guest?” Ivan quirks an eyebrow, his humorless smile still drawn across his face. “You understand you’re trapped in a dilemma, don’t you?”

“If you’re referencing the dilemma you have placed me in then yes, you could say that.”

“Hm.” Ivan leans back in his chair, propping his hands up behind his head. “Is that truly my doing when you, Germany, are the one who began the war? I couldn’t be expected to sit by idle and watch as you burnt Europe to the ground.”

The bile rises back up in his throat, the odd violet of Ivan’s gaze searing holes in his conscience. He, as both nation and man, is a presence spread over an area he looks as if he shouldn't be able to fill, the command of his silence louder than an order given by a weaker man. Ivan’s overcoat is open and hanging towards the floor, the bleached beige of his hair pushed back beneath his hat and the hard lines of his features cutting him a face and figure, both handsome and chillingly cold. If Alfred is the sun, then Ivan is the sea; chancy, wild forces in their own rights, but one, less agreeable than the other. Ivan is the mountainous waves rising before his vessel they both know will never hold.

Ludwig doesn’t respond, his featureless, little apartment cast in choking shadows and wreathed in sinking hell.

“However.” Ivan’s lips curl up in a shadow of a grin. “I offer you the food and stability the West cannot provide.”

Ludwig frowns, numbers running laps in his mind. “The airlift has been successful so far.”

“So far. What use is West Germany to the Allied Powers? Don’t take Jones’ honeyed words and empty promises as truth though I understand that it must be an easy mistake to make. I assure you, he’s only out for gain.”

“Then what would that make you?”

“I can’t object. Nationhood necessitates working for one’s people at any cost. Currently, that means obtaining power.” Ivan removes his arms from behind his head and crosses them over his chest. “All the same, Germany, at least I’m upfront about my intentions. Jones may very well have convinced himself that his heart lies in the morally correct location, but I’m sure you of all people would understand that supposed ‘pure ideals’ make little difference when power and corruption progress hand-in-hand. Men who refuse to face the reality of their immorality are disasters.”

Ludwig despises how Ivan’s words are merely repeats of the hissing voices in his head. He mostly chalks it up to the protesters and ignores them with the rest of the chatter that comes with being a nation, but there are days when it feels like his own voice speaking. Even now, the traitorous whisper asserts validity in Ivan’s statements in his very own tone. It's fair. It’s reasonable. Alfred needs nothing from him.

Yet Ludwig knows he must convince Alfred otherwise because the West is the only logical option.

He swallows. “I am not choosing based on sophistry. The Allied powers promise aid and better standards of living for my people.”

“But for how long? How long until Jones, Kirkland, the rest- decide the cost of this little airlift is no longer worth the trouble? Winter is coming. You’ll need more than they can transport by air.”

 _‘Which I can provide’_ rings silent in the pause between his words. Ludwig feels his jaw tense as Ivan shifts in his chair, pulling his boots off the table and dragging his chair in.

“I offer you a place on my side of the wall. Think of the benefits. We have your brother.”

Ivan sets his hands on the table, straightening as he waits for Ludwig’s response. The silence is stifling, and the room feels hot in a way the August sun never does. His fingers grip at the fabric of his pants, the sound of the neighbors clattering pots and utensils casting Ludwig out of the dismal fog. An image of Alfred flipping pancakes on a hot griddle, a smile playing up on his lips, flashes bright in his mind’s eye, and Ludwig’s heart clenches hard around the possibility of the future. While he knows dreams are never reality, he must believe that America, if not Alfred, will pull through for Germany, and if not for him, for the sake of his people.

“I refuse.” Adrenaline pumps through his veins, a stupid stubbornness pushing up against the doubt.

“Has he wrapped you so tightly around his little finger?” Ivan makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “I assure you, behind every polished sepulcher is a pile of rotting bones.”

It isn’t that. Ludwig feels like a dying man, drowning in a violet sea, but even now, he refuses to surrender this. “I am not ignorant of how you treat your charges, Russia. I refuse to put myself and my people in your hands.”

“Well.” Ivan stands from his chair, expression morose as he tosses the ends of his scarf over his shoulder. “False security is far more dangerous than myself. The world will be rebuilt, and it’s time, Germany, to choose which side you’ll be on. Nevertheless, my offer still stands. Do let me know when you’ll be joining us.” He pulls up his sleeve to check his watch. “I’ll expect you when the temperature drops.”

There’s a lump in Ludwig’s throat as Ivan starts towards the door, and though he’s glad to see him leaving, it feels like no one, not even his enemies, ever stays for longer than a blink of an eye. He stands on impulse, the familiar red of his brother's eyes crossing his vision and his heartbeat pounding once again in his ears. He clears his throat.

“When will I be able to see Gilbert?”

Ivan slows to a stop, the expanse of his back still turned in his direction, his hand patting his hip as he speaks. “That sounds like an inquiry better directed towards Jones. I'm not your keeper yet, Germany. _Bis bald_.”

He closes the remaining distance to the door, the sound of his footfalls present even as it closes behind him. The whistling of the mounting pressure subsides, and the atmosphere settles like dust to the floor.

Ludwig stands silent in the midst of his empty dining room, the shadows pulling back as the setting sun touches golden on his ragged couch and scraped counters. His arms hang limp at his sides and his hands shake with leftover fight-or-flight adrenaline. His body is set on releasing the energy it’s stored, yet while action must soon be taken and confidence held close to his heart, the stubborn belief in a chance for something better has faded with the dying light of the sun. Ivan’s words are snowflakes settling in on his clothes until slowly but surely they’ve gone cold and wet against his skin. Ludwig exhales, knowing life will always move on.

He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, shaking off the inexplicable shiver, and steps towards the kitchen. Ludwig is itching for a sympathetic ear, Gilbert, Alfred, Feliciano even, but as he reaches the cabinet, he recognizes that alcohol will have to serve as their sorry replacement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹⁶ The Marshall Plan was signed by President Harry S. Truman on April 3, 1948. This was the American initiative to send post-war aid to Western Europe in order to rebuild war-torn regions, remove trade barriers, modernize industry, boost Europe back into prosperity and halt the spread of Communism. Notably, West Germany was the third largest receiver of American aid following the UK and France. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_Plan)]_
> 
> ¹⁷ As the Berlin Blockade was put into effect, many communists in Germany rose up in response, threatening to overthrow Germany’s then government. They presumed that with the newly asserted Russian control, Germany would soon fall beneath Russia and become communist like the rest of the nations behind the Iron Curtain, and their intention was to expedite this process. This reached its climax on September the 6th when the Kremlin organized a putsch against the municipal government. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade#Attempted_Communist_putsch_in_the_municipal_government)]_


	7. September 22, 1948

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this week, and hopefully, one that's worth the buildup the last two chapters have been attempting! This chapter in particular was fun to research for, so I hope this it's appropriately entertaining. Thank you all again for your support. You wonderful people are blessings upon this earth, and I love you all dearly! The aesthetic for this chapter may be found [here](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/173283400082/expanse-hes-all-too-aware-of-how-hopeless-it-is).

_September 22, 1948_

Tempelhof is buzzing with classic German efficiency, lines of men ferrying Allied supplies with practiced synchronicity and women with snack carts making cheerful rounds on the pilots. The constant roar of plane engines as landings and takeoffs continuously occur is mingled with men shouting in a hodgepodge of German and English, people jogging by with the shine of sweat on their foreheads. The atmosphere is of coherence, and the foreign pilots from the Americans to the Australians bring a twist of flavor to the routine of Berlin life. This bustle is a welcome distraction from the worries mounting in Ludwig's mind.

Shuttling these endless boxes of potatoes and coffee and everything in between is the most physical labor he’s done since France under the Allies’ compulsion.¹⁸ It feels good to take up a wrench and cutters and slide into the engine of a plane knowing the results are for no one’s benefit but his people’s. His hands are oil-soaked, and his brow, beaded with sweat, but if this is what it takes to regain his feet and push his nation back out of the shambles, Ludwig will gladly ache. He only wishes the frenzied screams of revolution would cease and the whisperings of the Soviets would return to Moscow.

Ivan is what the rioters want, but he knows that Ivan and the Russians will bring them nothing but trouble. He runs a hand across his forehead, chiding himself for letting idle thoughts overtake him. There’s little point in dwelling on the inevitable.

The bluster of another Douglas C-54 Skymaster is what snatches up his attention, the American plane stirring up something like hoping in the bottom of his gut. The silvery metal of its body glints in the pale autumn sun, the plane banking low as it smooths into the airport with practiced ease, its pilot’s skill more than evident before it even touches the runway. It hits the asphalt, rumbling to a halt as the engines whir down to a lull, and men lope forward to unload her goods. His stomach flips, irrational expectation rushing up in his heart.

The pilot leans out and waves at the men below, his face obscured by a hand shielding his face from the sun. He’s irritatingly familiar in the breadth of his shoulders and the shape of his movements, shocks of blond hair notable for a second before he bobs back in his cockpit presumably to exit his plane. Without a second thought, Ludwig jogs forward, his body working to conspire with his heart against his mind. He’s all too aware of how hopeless it is to see Alfred in every swaggering American pilot landing at Tempelhof in a star-spangled plane.

The transport trucks meet the plane at its side, the ladders falling down as the men rush up, orders shouted in hurried German. The pilot comes into view as they do, his face turning just enough for the sunlight to hit his features and his voice ringing out above the din.

“Damn! This is a hell of a lot faster than last time, and I thought y’all had this shit down pat then.”

Ludwig exhales sharply as tan skin and warm blue eyes come into view- Alfred. It’s Alfred.

He's outfitted in a pilot’s uniform, the hat on his head pulled crooked and his smile impossibly bright. He slaps one of the men on the shoulder and announces something muffled by a roaring engine. The man nods vigorously in response, scurrying into the transport’s holds, and Ludwig feels like he’s drowning. He swallows as the light of the sun dims in response to Alfred’s sudden appearance and freezes mere meters away, the old fears bubbling back up like tar pits and mammoths and the words of Ivan looping like a broken record in his mind. He hesitates, his brows drawing down in contemplation.

Alfred spots him before he can decide to approach him or hide.

Their eyes lock, and as the smile on Alfred’s face falters, Ludwig feels like a shock is jolting down his spine. He cannot tell if this is surprise or regret or wary hesitance flashing across Alfred’s face, but before he can turn away, Alfred regains his composure and strolls towards him, his arms swinging at his sides. Ludwig presses his lips into a line and squares his shoulders, closing the last of the distance between them as the sound of his heart beats like steel drums in his ears.

“Jones.” He halts, his eyes narrowed and his tone unintentionally terse.

“Beilschmidt.” Alfred offers a smile, his voice friendly and raised to accommodate for the noise. He jerks his head towards the airport building. “Want to head in?”

He nods curtly, waiting for Alfred to step up beside him.

Questions crash like cymbals on the tip of his tongue, but it’s the cacophony of Tempelhof chaos that ensures conversing is best left inside. They start forward, the wind blowing back stray strands of Alfred’s hair against his face and his eyes shining with the same, familiar purpose behind the same, familiar red frames. There is determination in the cadence of his strides and meaning in the tilt of his chin. Ludwig's insides twist up in knots, a myriad of emotions running on themselves and filtering out sense from his mind. It’s only when Alfred looks over, amusement playing up on his lips, that Ludwig flushes red and remembers that staring is impolite.

He tears his gaze away, drilling it instead towards the door they’re nearing, his brows scrunching downwards. As they come upon the entrance, he steps towards the door and pulls it open for Alfred on instinct, hovering between eye contact and glancing away. Something odd flits across Alfred’s face, but he straightens up and strides on through the door without a word. Ludwig exhales and follows.

He marches through the bee-lining men, Alfred just behind him, and moves towards a storage room he suspects will be empty. Had it been any other day he would’ve been proud to see the interior of the airport bustling with action, the efficacy present within just as without. However, with his mind set on the task at hand, he gives it little thought and stops promptly by the storage room door, poking his head inside and flipping up the light switch. As suspected, it’s devoid of human life, only papers and boxes pushed back in the corners of the concrete room. He pulls back, holding the door open with an arm.

“This should do.”

“Thanks.” Alfred nods and steps inside, his hands on his hips as he stops by the back wall. He’s kept to German which is something of a surprise for Ludwig who’s used to speaking whatever language the nation visiting demands.

He shuts the door behind them and hovers by the exit, his hands folded behind his back and his stance held wide. “You wished to talk?”

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Alfred doesn’t face him, unreadable through his voice alone.

“No.” He isn’t mad, maybe wary, maybe _afraid_. “I am not.”

Alfred transitions to English as he turns, genuine surprise on his features. He drops his hands to his sides and pauses, watching him with a careful expression. “You aren’t? I mean- Shit, I mean, I’m still sorry either way. I just- With how you were acting when you saw me, I thought…” He rubs the back of his neck, trailing off.

“With how I was… No… What are you apologizing for?”

“For not writing and not… visiting sooner? Did you… Did you not notice? Which is fine. I mean, that’s good I guess. I wouldn’t want you to be worried about us, or-”

“Alfred.” He frowns, hating how his mouth refuses to form the sentiments his mind wishes to convey. His words drop like bricks, awkward and unneeded, to the floor. “I did notice, but I understand you have other obligations. I cannot expect you to be able to write with the recent developments.”

“Are you sure you’re not upset? You kind of looked pissed earlier.”

Ludwig stops. It’s difficult to process Alfred in a state of hesitancy, and his mind is refusing to wrap around it.

“It is not your fault. I was mildly concerned as to whether-” Words continue to tumble out of their own accord. “Well, you must be aware of what Russia has been saying.”

“Wait. Wait, what? What the fuck has Ivan been saying besides the shit about us not being able to pull off the fucking airlift? That’s all he’s been saying, right?”

“The riots- Have you… heard of the riots?” It’s still so strange to see Alfred nearly afraid. For the first time since the war, Ludwig feels as if he has the power to throw something of consequence into the running, and it’s uncomfortable; unnerving. Alfred should not worry over someone like him, yet despite his best efforts, Ludwig still finds this genuine concern so addictive.

“Yeah. Shit, yeah. Sorry about that, Lud. I wanted to be here to help I swear, but I barely get clearance as it is and with all the new regulations?¹⁹ Couldn’t risk it. You’re doing okay though, right? With everything going on?” Alfred hesitates, waving a hand. “Sorry, back to what the communist fucker was saying to you.”

“He visited.” He tests the words on his tongue, but it’s as if he’s walking through a dream and talking underwater. “Though it is fine. I appreciate your explanations.”

The questioning on Alfred’s face morphs into disbelief, then anger, then something else he can’t quite peg. Alfred turns to the side, his jaw clenching visibly. “Fuck. Fuck, of course, he did.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks Ludwig in the eye. “And what did he say?”

“Russia promised food and supplies should we cross over to the Soviet occupied sections of Berlin. That I am sure you are aware of, but additionally, he has been spreading rumors that you- that the Allies will be abandoning Berlin across the radios.”

Alfred blinks, a cocktail of emotions exhibiting themselves on his face. Ludwig continues, praying he isn't as obvious about his own fears on his face and clears quickly his throat.

“However, it is unfair. I and the people of Berlin know this to be false after the events of the ninth.” It’s a little more than a half-truth. September the ninth had convinced many Berliners of the dedication of the Allied forces, specifically the Americans, to the Berlin airlift,²⁰ but Ludwig himself is unsure, uncertainty still clinging to his psyche. Human decisions change all too quickly for his liking, and besides, it isn’t exactly America as a whole he’s concerned about in the present, and he knows it’s terribly selfish.

“We will _not_ leave you.” Alfred emphasizes each word, stepping closer to Ludwig to look him straight in the eye. “Ludwig, I swear I’m sticking around until the blockade lifts. This isn’t my first flight, you know? I’ve been looking for you since the first time I landed in Berlin way back in July.”

“This is not your first flight?” He repeats incredulously, the news shaking him from his preparations of grim acceptance and leaving him unconcerned to the proximity of Alfred’s spotless uniform to his mucked up coveralls for once in forever.

“No, fourth actually. We must’ve missed each other. I swear I looked, but it looked bad if I hung around here too long as pretty as the _Fräuleins_ serving up the snacks may be.”

Ludwig must’ve grimaced because Alfred sets his hands on both his shoulders and grins, the space between them barely present. “Not as pretty as you and your baby blues though.”

“Alfred, I am not pretty.” He objects and flushes at the tips of his ears, the scent of Alfred’s cologne floating up in subtle waves.

“Hm, handsome better then?” He cracks a smile, his glasses glinting in the artificial light. Ludwig’s heart clenches, flustering at his comments. Alfred is too good at mowing down his walls and sweeping back his insecurities with nothing more than a smoothing phrase.

“I would object to that as well.” Half of him wants to lean in, and the other half, run out the door, so instead of choosing one or the other, Ludwig is caught, stiff as a board under Alfred’s hands on his shoulders and his warm blue eyes resting on his own.

“Christ, you’re tense as fuck though.” Alfred massages Ludwig’s shoulders once or twice, wincing in sympathy as he hits a knot, before he releases his grip and steps on back. Ludwig is tingling where Alfred’s touched him, the imprints of ghosting hands on his shoulders. “Am I making you this uncomfortable? I’ll definitely back up if you ask, but this feels like it’s been brought on by more than just me being an attractive, talented pilot who’s getting all up in your face.”

Ludwig flushes pink as his words hit home. A rebellious part of him had wanted Alfred to pull him down behind a door and into a passionate kiss as soon as they’d entered the building, a secret reunion to which the men rushing by would’ve been none the wiser. It’s foolish, he knows, but his mind seems to rarely listen at the most inopportune occasions.

Alfred has paused once again, but Ludwig can tell he’s connecting the dots. He curses the paleness of his skin as Alfred breaks out in an disbelieving grin. “Oh my god, I have theories, but Lud, tell me what you’re thinking because now I’m actually confused as hell.”

“You do not make me uncomfortable. I-” Ludwig falters, the expectancy of Alfred’s gaze making it difficult to refrain from kissing him himself. He has missed him, more than he cares to admit and more than ever his traitorous emotions thrum like a live wire in is mind. Life is too quiet, and the heart, too empty in Alfred’s absence. It was only the letters that pulled him through. He speaks before he’s ready.

“The rose. I liked it.”

Ludwig wishes to sink into a hole and die, his bones disintegrating and the plants feeding on the nutrients his remains would provide until nothing more than another handful of dust on the ground remains. The rose of all things even if it is true… Alfred must think he’s an idiot after a statement such as that.

But remarkably enough, Alfred reaches into his pocket and produces a chocolate bar instead of shaking his head and walking out the door. He peels it open as Ludwig watches in wonder, his brows drawn in concentration and his teeth grazing his lower lip as he pulls the packaging apart. Ludwig’s heart is hammering in his chest at his unexpected performance, his hands fallen awkwardly at his sides. The light cuts shadows on Alfred’s face, the blue of his eyes distinct beneath the contrasting light and dark dipping in the contours of his cheek bones. Alfred breaks off a piece and holds it up in offering, déjà vu playing in Ludwig’s head. He hesitates, reaching up to procure it from his hands, but Alfred catches his rising wrist and brings the chocolate to his lips.

Ludwig is caught in Alfred’s eyes, the honey blond of his swept back hair set against the warm tan of his skin. The air is stirring between them, charged electric with the light of a thousand miniscule filaments connecting Ludwig to Alfred by desire alone. There is promise in his eyes, affection on his tongue. He shifts his weight on his feet, and his boots scrape against the dust-covered concrete, his thumbs rubbing his fingers awkwardly at his sides.

Alfred’s tender gaze draws him in, and he forgets what decency is, leaning forward with his lips parted open. Alfred’s fingertips graze against his lips, and his hand, instead of dropping to his side, reaches down and cups his jaw. Alfred is uncharacteristically serious, his thumb brushing along Ludwig’s cheek as the chocolate falls against his tongue, stars going supernova on its surface, but as Alfred stops with his hand set against the line of his jaw, Ludwig forgets how to breathe.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is quiet, but adamant, the message clear that yes, Alfred does wish to kiss him, but he will back off if Ludwig gives the word.

The callouses on Alfred’s hand are still pressed up against his jaw, and the playful light in his eyes has been replaced by undisputed adoration. Ludwig pushes the chocolate to the side of his mouth, his stomach doing flips in his chest.

“Yes.”

The space between them is charged with an invisible sort of electricity, something stronger humming present in Ludwig’s ears. Alfred breaks down the barrier.

Alfred slides his hand along his neck, his fingers carding through the soft strands of hair above his neck as he presses his lips to Ludwig’s. Warmth blooms in his chest, and heady pleasure swirls like cotton candy in his gut. Ludwig follows, his head tilting to accommodate, and his hands move to rest gently on his hips. He's still covered with filth from the engines, yet his brain is uncharacteristically forgetful, and it ceases to speak entirely as Alfred’s lips mold effortlessly to his own. The hand on his neck runs down his shoulder and along the line of his spine, pushing him up and against Alfred’s chest.

Ludwig has no clue what he's doing. He can count the number of people he’s kissed on his fingers while he’s sure Alfred must be his polar opposite, yet as Alfred touches him with magma in his veins and syrup in his gaze, he forgets why it matters. Alfred’s hand drifts to his chin, tugging him closer, until slowly he breaks away, his eyes half lidded.

Ludwig sighs as contact breaks, the air whistling out in a puff between them.

“I did miss you.” Ludwig admits in a whisper, their foreheads rested against one another’s and their breaths warm against the other’s skin. Alfred shifts his hand from his arm to his chest, lulling him quiet with a dreamy smile.

Ludwig can almost believe this is real.

“Right back at you, Lud. Glad to hear you didn’t feel like running off with Ivan instead.”

The tips of his ears flush a deeper shade of red, his lips pursed. “No… Not in the present day. You are the preferred option.”

“Just the preferred?” Alfred leans in, their lips nearly touching. “I’d say I’m the best option. Who else is there? China? England, maybe? Don’t tell me you’re into older men.”

“No.” Ludwig wrinkles his nose, squeezing Alfred’s hips as he attempts to avoid a smile. “I am questioning why you have only named major world players. Are you accusing me of an attraction to the powerful?”

“Hm, I think I can see it. You playing trophy husband? You’re definitely hot enough.”

Ludwig huffs softly as a new wave of embarrassment overtakes him. “I am capable of standing on my own. However, if you happened to be the millionaire or whomever I was playing trophy husband for I would have no objections. Namely because I doubt you would be capable of handling all the paperwork.”

“Hmmm.” Alfred grins and presses his lips back to Ludwig’s for a brief second, little sparks going off in Ludwig’s spinning mind. “I’ll take that jab just because you’re probably right. I’m not bad with numbers, but logistics all day? I’d die.”

“I know.” Ludwig murmurs still halfway in a dream, his eyes drifting down towards Alfred’s chest as dark smudges catch his attention. Spots are evident on his previously immaculate shirt, and somewhere along the way his hat has found the floor. Ludwig slips out of Alfred’s arms and steps back, his brow furrowing, as he moves to retrieve the hat from the ground.

He straightens up, holding it out. “I apologize. I believe I have soiled your shirt.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Alfred recovers from his momentary surprise at Ludwig’s slip away and accepts the hat with a smile. “I figured I was going to help unload anyways. It’s not like I expected to stay looking like…”

“Like you stepped out of a poster?”

“I-” Alfred sets his hat on his heat, the side of his mouth pulling up in consideration. “I’m flattered…?"

“It is not a negative thing from a solely physical point of view. They do find attractive individuals for most propaganda posters.”

“In that case, I accept your compliment. Thanks, babe.” Alfred winks, smoothing down his shirt and turning back towards the door. Ludwig wants to kiss him longer, but Alfred is already plowing forward. “Think they’ve noticed we’re missing?”

“You’re… You’re welcome. And I doubt it. Air control may have, but I doubt they're concerned as we haven't been gone for long.”

A pang of something Ludwig can't quite peg ricochets down his spine as Alfred turns towards the door. There's a vortex of questions cropping up in the silence, _what_ and _when_ and _why_. Ludwig wants certainty where they've left nothing more than smudged lines, but when Alfred is a wild card and a firecracker, unused to confining himself with things like labels, it wouldn’t be right to cage him like a bird.

“You know though, yeah?” Alfred's voice pulls him back to the present, his head turned briefly to make eye contact with him. “That we aren't going to quit until Ivan fucks off? I'm in this for the long run, Lud. Don't listen to what that asshole says.”

“Thank you.” It's enough. It has to be when anything more express is inappropriate for him to desire.

Alfred rolls back his shoulders and fixes his collar with a few tugs, starting up towards the door. Ludwig inhales, steeling himself to face his reality, as Alfred glances back and flashes him a smile. “Let's go out and see if we can catch the last of it? Maybe we can load a few boxes before I head out.” He tosses Ludwig the chocolate bar. “And next time I'll get you real red roses. Promise.”

He manages to catch it, a century’s worth of combat training paying off. There’s little time to process as Alfred hurries out through the door. Ludwig strides after, hitting the light switch on his way out.

Alfred pauses long enough for him to fall in step beside him, looking rustled but happier than before. He jostles him with an arm, grinning as they start through the airport. “This is great though. You guys have done an awesome job getting this up and running at this high of a level. I'm impressed as fuck.”

Ludwig returns his smile to a lesser extent, pride in his people swelling in his chest. He hopes and prays that someday soon his nation’s children will have a home they’ll be proud of. “Thank you. It is our goal to make the transportation of goods as smooth as possible. Though it is thanks to you that this has become a reality.”

“I can't take all the credit, but between you and me, you're pretty much right for the most part. It’s really just me and Art really pushing this forward on our side of the deal, but hey, take some credit. This?” Alfred gestures around them to the scurrying workers and humming machines. “All you.”

“Thank you.” He feels inexplicably like the sky's the limit, new optimism in the tilt of his chin. “Though for the others’ lesser level of involvement, it’s understandable, considering their situations.”

“Ha, yeah, that’s true. It's great of them to get involved, but did you know Mattie didn't want shit to do with this at first? He cussed out Arthur when he asked. It was comic gold.”

A look of concern flits across his face. “I wouldn't want to be the cause of a schism between you.”

“God no, don't worry. It was just the straw on the camel's back.” Alfred slaps his upper arm reassuringly, gesturing to the buzzing scene about them. “Look at this shit. Can you believe he almost turned this chance down? His problems was just that he thinks we do too much without consulting him first, but don't sweat it. He's chill with it now, and it was still hilarious.”

“That's good at least.” Ludwig nods slowly in somewhat agreement over the mental image of Alfred’s gentler brother yelling at Arthur being more than surprising if not amusing at the most. “Is he still across the Atlantic?”

“Not sure. He's been over a few times, but definitely not as much as me. Did you hear about Halvorsen though, pilot from my side of the pond?²¹”

“...Halvorsen?”

“The candy guy- Operation Little Vittles! It started officially today.”

Realization dawns upon Ludwig, memories of beaming children clutching candy wrappers to their noses cropping up in his mind. A warm glow lights up in his chest, pleased at the thought of anyone bringing the children of his nation goodwill and sweets in times like these. If their intention is to elicit good will from the Germans, the Americans have mastered the art of succeeding in more ways than one. Ludwig finds his lips playing upwards as he responds.

“The children love him, though I was unaware they had made it official.”

Alfred sets his hands on his hips and stops just before the door, his gaze set somewhere across the horizon. “Yeah, I didn’t know until too recently either, but isn't it a great idea? We're hoping to boost morale, and hopefully soon, I'll be with the group bringing loads of candy for all your kiddos. Think they’ll like it?”

“They will love it. They will love you.”

Alfred turns to face him, smiling, as he goes to open the door.

“Then that's the plan. Tell them we’re coming with more _Schokolade_ just for them. Christmas is coming early.”

Alfred grips his bicep in a friendly manner before sliding his hand down to Ludwig’s grasping it for the briefest second. He pushes open the door and steps right through, the clamor of engines and men flooding his ears and the light throwing backwards his shadow. He follows through, smiling slightly as Alfred’s touch lingers like a memory on his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹⁸ Germans were forced into labor by the Allies following their defeat in WWII. Ludwig, in my headcanon, was sent specifically to France where the Germans were made to clear mines. It was extremely unsafe work, and therefore, perfect for a guy who can’t die. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forced_labor_of_Germans_after_World_War_II)]_
> 
> ¹⁹ On July 28, 1948, a number of transport planes into Berlin crashed due to unfavorable weather. No one was killed, but the day was dubbed Black Friday, and stricter regulations were consequently enforced. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade#Black_Friday)]_
> 
> ²⁰ In the words of one German politician at the Brandenburg Gate on September 9, 1948: "You peoples of the world, you people of America, of England, of France, look on this city, and recognize that this city, this people, must not be abandoned – cannot be abandoned!" Many Germans gathered at the gate as the fear that the Allied powers would abandon them reached its apex, gaining them recognition and reassurance worldwide though especially from America. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade#Black_Friday)]_
> 
> ²¹ Gail Halvorsen was an American pilot who began Operation Little Vittles, something that consisted of dropping candy tied to handmade parachutes for the children of Berlin. It began officially on September 22, 1948 and eventually involved people from American school children who contributed by making parachutes for the candy to large candy companies who donated the actual candy to the cause. _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gail_Halvorsen#Operation_%22Little_Vittles%22)]_


	8. May 23, 1949

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me thus far! I appreciate you all so, so much. <3 Special thanks to my beta reader, [Rainy](https://regneriisch.tumblr.com), for editing as well as contributing Gilbert's line involving "getting f-ed by Europe." Feedback is more than appreciated both here and on [tumblr](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com)! Please enjoy, and [here's](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com/post/173499608162/expanse-do-i-have-a-problem-with-your-little) the link to this chapter's aesthetic.

_ May 23, 1949 _

The world seems blurred. The walls are blindingly white, and their footsteps, muffled, the morning announcement looping circles through his mind. This new German republic is yet another card played for him without his consent, and the scraping struggle between America and Russia continues to ink out his future. Separation; establishment; this marks the beginning of a new age and the finality of a divided Germany and a Gilbert cut off from him by more than an unspoken understanding.²²  Memories of rebuke given unsmiling and curt to Ludwig, young, arrogant and stupidly blind to his folly, crop up uninvited at the name of his brother, staining crimson on his hands and burning holes in his lungs. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat as regret stacks walls in his mind.

Soviet guards stand somber at the hall’s end, their faces blank and their caps pulled low on their faces. The artificial light casts dark lines on their features, their stances as stiff as the rest of this border building. Ludwig pulls his shoulders back as he strides down the hall, his suit ironed and starched and his hair slicked back in a proper hairstyle. It’s the first time since the war’s end that he’s managed to don clothes of reasonable size for a man of his stature, yet this is far from an occasion worth celebrating.

Alfred strolls along at his side, the divide between his suit and Ludwig’s glaringly obvious. It’s the American flair, Alfred’s tie striped red, white and blue and the hat on his head, a newer model than any Ludwig’s seen him don, that he knows he’ll never manage.

Still, this meeting is anything but a fashion show. 

This meeting is a mission, a chance to recompense for the woes he’s brought upon his brother.

A million different reasons why this setup is less than ideal run through his mind from the location within Berlin’s eastern sector to the presence of Ivan. He keeps his eyes forward, his palms slick with sweat as the door looms ever closer and the gravity of the situation settles like a world upon his shoulders. He allows Alfred to get the door. It’s one matter to do him the courtesy in a casual setting and another completely to usher him into a room where Ivan will be present. Alfred gives him a nod, guiding him in with a hand on his back. 

He spots Ivan first, an ironclad mountain settled in the midst of the room. His back is straight and his gaze, set ahead, his hands steepled on the round table before them. The civilian attire is unnerving on a man Ludwig is used to seeing in anything but, yet it’s only as Ivan meets Alfred’s eyes that any acknowledgement of their entrance at all crosses his features. Alfred and Ivan are unstoppable force meets immovable object, and Ludwig blinks, the tension spiking uncomfortably high. He turns his attention towards Gilbert seated at Ivan’s side, his brother’s face a mask of apathy. 

Gilbert is seated with his legs crossed one over the other, his chair turned out towards the door and his face positioned towards the wall. There are bruises along his jaw, purple and yellow and black in the light, and his hands are wrapped in off-white bandages. Ludwig frowns. The marks of war he himself carries are now scars, not bruises and open cuts, while Gilbert’s, still glaringly present, point from war to mistreatment and lack of aid. His thoughts are shut down as Gilbert meets his eyes, Gilbert’s face morphing from melancholy to forced pleasantry. Ludwig swallows hard, mute in response to his nod. Ten years ago Gilbert had been a man in his prime, lean muscle and powerful presence, yet now he’s thin and bruised, proud but broken, sprawled silent across his place at the table.

He nearly considers tossing Gilbert over his shoulder and dashing out the back, ridding them both of Ivan and the situation at hand, but the guards and their guns standing watchful behind Ivan’s seat are a sure deterrent against any plan of escape. He, instead, moves towards his seat, aware of Alfred still leaned up against the door. 

“Wow, so you do have a neck. I thought you were hiding some sort of, dunno, civilization behind the scarf?” Alfred gestures towards the absence of Ivan’s scarf, replaced instead by a white band of bandages across his skin. 

Ivan’s fingers twitch at their place on the table, his smile widening into something more threat than welcome. “You should put your foot in your mouth.”

“Psh, it won’t fit.” Alfred wiggles his foot in the air, picking himself up off the door as he does. “You know it’s too big.”

“What? Your foot or your mouth?”

Gilbert makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, his hand flying to his mouth. 

Ludwig slides into his seat as discreetly as he can, watching as Alfred opens his mouth in an attempt to respond. After brief consideration, Alfred quiets and seats himself between Ludwig and Gilbert without a word, his expression miffed. Gilbert looks as if he’s struggling to keep a smile off his face, his true sentiments obvious in the slight twitch of his lips and the drumming of his fingers on the table. Knowing nothing good will occur if this situation is left to fester, Ludwig clears his throat and pulls his chair in towards the table.

“America. Russia… Gilbert.” Ludwig looks to each nation in turn, his hands settled on his lap. “Let us direct our attention to the matter at hand?”

Alfred stiffens at the use of his nation title, his mouth pulling to one side. Ludwig’s heart sinks to his stomach, but the logic is clear in his decision. The familiarity which to Alfred is trust is taboo in a place such as this. He won’t risk the exposure of something closer between them with Alfred’s sworn nemesis seated here at this table and shifts his gaze instead to Ivan and his brother. Ivan stretches his arm out before him, his hands palm-down on the table.

“A wise choice. So.” He picks his hands up and slides them together on the surface of the wood, palms facing one another in an almost clap. “The trizone has been gifted a name.  _ Officially _ .” The word is venom rolling off his tongue, his soft accent drawing  _ i’ _ s into  _ e’ _ s.

“Yeah.” Alfred sprawls out over his chair, one arm resting on the table. “There’s a reason why Arthur and Francis haven’t been showing up to these shitty meetings. You got a problem with that?”

“Do I have a problem with your little Federal Republic? You could say that much is true. What I question are your motives. If I did not know better I would call them fear.”

“Pfft, sounds like you’re the one playing pussy.” Alfred leans in towards the table, his weight on his forearm. “We’re just trying to make things easier to administrate ‘cause I don’t know about you, but I’m actually trying to get things back to normal.²³ ”

Gilbert looks oddly amused, but it's more irony than humor in his eyes. 

Ivan allows no change of expression, his hands clasped before him. “You are aware that the game you are playing requires two, yes?” 

“And I’m aware that I’m falling asleep here. Kids, kids, if this is just an excuse to have a go at each other why’d you drag me and Lud into it?” Gilbert says, waving a hand in the air. “Let us do something useful while you two bicker.”

“Oh, do enlighten us,” Ivan says, “What could you possibly hope to accomplish, Beilschmidt?” 

“Hm, let’s see. A list of things more productive than this shitfest? We could watch paint dry, just for starters.”

Ludwig is thrown for a loop at the sudden interjection, the voice of his brother much hoarser than what he’s used to. A thousand different subtleties from the unhealed cuts on Gilbert’s fingers to the bruises on his jaw speak to an existence far less pleasant than even his own. They add more to the list of why he refuses to let his brother suffer longer for his own shortcomings, not when it’s only cowardice preventing him from changing things in the present. His gaze flits from each nation to the next as time runs shorter and the walls smother down coherent thought like the guards at their backs.

“You-” Ivan starts.

“I request to switch places with Gilbert.” Ludwig swallows hard, staring ahead at his brother, his adrenaline spiking. He suppresses a shudder, his own voice cutting into the exchange like pricking ice sharp against his skin. He feels like a child again in royal court, palms sweaty and tone betraying of his pathetic unsurety.    


The room freezes, the sputtering whir of the air conditioning matching that of a plane engine’s roar in the moment of silence. Gilbert is the quickest to conceal his reaction, his surprise shifting into unreadable impassivity while Alfred at his side makes no effort to reign the shock down from his face. Ivan is, as expected, by far the least responsive, his brows raising subtly before they drop. Expectation and reality only diverge as an incredulous smile stretches over his face. 

“Has he taught you nothing?” Ivan laughs, brittle in the confinement of these walls. “Have you never been told that a nation cannot choose what he represents?”

Gilbert has collected the last bits of shock from his features, brushing them off into the metaphorical waste bin and clapping his hands together. “Bud, why would you want to switch? You can’t be telling me you think Alfred’s that much of an idiot.” He cracks a grin, spreading his arms to either side. “I put up with him for a few years. I’m sure you can, too.”

Alfred forces a laugh, but unlike the others, there’s something much closer to panic behind his smile. “Gil’s right! We can’t just switch you two out, but I mean, there’s always tomorrow, right?”

Ludwig swears his voice has cracked by the end, but he plows on, ignoring the uneasy smiles of the men beside him. “West and East Germany are less than nations. With the establishment of the Federal Republic of Germany I believe things have been thrown into limbo. A switch should be possible at the present.”

“Incorrect.” Ivan raises a hand. “Your brother’s very existence is unstable. It would likely kill him.”

Gilbert leans back in his chair, throwing haphazard finger guns in Ivan’s direction. “Wow, I’m flattered you’re this concerned about my wellbeing. Really touching, but anyways! See, Lud, we probably don’t want me to die. Probably not a good idea just in my personal opinion.”

“Though after further consideration, Ludwig may be grasping something that we have missed. It is theoretically plausible if-” Ivan pauses, considering him with uncomfortable scrutiny. “Where are your borders?” 

It isn’t a question of hard fact as much as of identity, a test Gilbert had utilized with him at their first meeting. 

Ludwig pulls back to the part of his mind where Germany speaks stronger than Ludwig, the souls of millions amalgamating in a living, pulsing mass. If he stretches, he can touch upon handfuls and pockets of people now considered East Germans, a sign of possibility for exchange. It’s undocumented and riskier than not, but for Gilbert's sake and for the sake of his conscience, Ludwig refuses to take no for an answer.

He levels his voice, firm in his assertions. “What one would expect them to be. The distinction is in the people.” 

“Well?” Ivan looks to Gilbert in question.

“No offense, Lud, but switching is a big fucking hassle. We don’t want to mess with that shit. In fact, I’d say this meeting is practically over with. We should all go back home and enjoy ourselves, yeah? Maybe pick up some prostitutes; get fucked by something other than the entirety of Europe.” Gilbert says, twirling his hand nonchalantly through the air.

Alfred flashes them all the same painfully forced smile, nodding vigorously in agreement. “Sounds like a plan! I’m feeling pretty hungry myself, and is it just me, or did someone break the AC in this building again?” He adjusts his tie, laughing under his breath. “Ivan, you should really send more money to your side; it’s looking pretty shit.”

“Rude.” Gilbert remarks.

Ludwig is barely processing, a thousand reasons why he must succeed streaming through his mind. He catches Ivan’s eyes, his face set in determined lines. “Russia, it would be beneficial to switch considering Gilbert is at less than optimum performance level whereas I have largely recovered. Your losses would be recompensed at a faster rate with the exchange.”

Ivan drums his fingers against the table and hums, offering him a perturbing smile. “As much as I would love to send you to the snowfields,²⁴  dear Germany, they are right in saying it is more trouble than it is worth.” He turns towards Alfred. “Now, if there is nothing else to discuss and merely action to be taken, we will be off.” He pushes out from his chair and stands to his feet, the guards behind him marching forward in sync. There are undercurrents of aggravation beneath the control of his tone, but his mannerisms and face are impossible to read.

Gilbert rolls his eyes and stands as well, mumbling in German beneath his breath. “ _ God, and I thought I had a flair for the dramatic. _ ”

Ludwig stands with them, his hands planted on the table and his fingers digging into the wood. Whether or not the flash in Ivan’s eyes is a sign of a near boiling point, he feels as if he's reaching his own. A lump is growing in his throat, the very thing he's come to accomplish slipping slick between his fingers and falling back into darkness. Alfred leans forward in his chair, halfway standing, but before either of them can act, Ivan sweeps around the table, placing a hand on Gilbert’s back as the guards move in behind them.

“Jones. Keep an eye on your charge.”

Gilbert glares daggers at Ivan’s arm and shoves it forcibly away from his back, his lips curling in a repulsed sneer. Ivan continues towards Alfred, acknowledgement given only by a twitch of his eye. He bends down beside him, his hands clasped behind his back and his words whispered in quiet, spilling Russian. “I have leashes if you require one.”

Hot air expands in his head, pressure building to the front of his forehead. Ludwig steps forward towards the door, the click of Ivan’s dress shoes hard against the ground and the clenching of Gilbert’s fists at his sides glaring in the edges of his vision. To his side, Alfred’s jaw tightens, and he stands to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground. The room thrums with hot aggravation, and Ludwig’s blood is pounding in his ears, half-fear, half-anger. Gilbert steps into the hall, and the guards stop, turn and level their guns to their chests. Ivan remains standing, motionless in the doorway with his back turned in their direction.

“Careful, Jones,” He says, his voice impossibly flat. “You cannot expect to control others when you cannot control yourself.”

“It’s not about fucking control, Braginsky!” Alfred takes another step forward, and the guards raise their guns high towards his face. 

A sudden vision of Alfred shot on the floor rings red like a scene from the bloody past across his mind, and before Ludwig can think, he lunges forward and catches Alfred’s wrist, static like a ticking bomb ringing in his ears. A brawl will spell them nothing but trouble, not when it’s them up against guns on land that isn’t either of their own. Alfred’s wrist tenses, his brows drawing forward in anger and his breathing still heavy. Two seconds, and his hands fall back down to his sides, his wrist slipping out from Ludwig's grip. A beat. A breath. Ivan turns, his profile silhouetted against the brightness of the hall and his lips curved up in a taunting smile, humorless in his expression.

“Then what? Do not pretend to be their savior.” Ivan steps out into the hall, the guards marching out behind him with a wave of his hand. “And Jones, expect your little republic to have a counterpart before the end of this year.”

Ludwig catches Gilbert, narrow-eyed and silent just outside the exit, his mouth moving to form something like ‘don’t worry’ in measured German, nearly unreadable. In an instant, the door falls closed behind them, leaving Gilbert as a ghost of a memory and his anger like dissipating mist over a sinking harbor. It seals them within the hollow walls with a click, and Ludwig exhales, inhales as his anger falls away into nothing more than a gaping hole in his soul, the edges of which he cannot define. Emptiness spreads, insidiously hidden, the wisps of Gilbert’s people fading further into the yawning abyss. He can feel the hairline fractures widen further, further, further towards a permanent separation.

He deserves this, but Gilbert does not, not when he’d warned him of the coming end, not when he’d told him his pride would be his fall. Ludwig knows he should’ve listened, knows he should’ve heard his brother’s well intentioned wisdom. Guilt crashes over him like an avalanche, blocking black in his vision and crushing air from his lungs, the knowledge of his incompetence running like a broken record in his mind. He releases an uneven breath, pulled to the present only by a whispered ‘fuck’ to his back, the sound of pacing footsteps accompanying Alfred wringing his hands.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” He slams his hat down to the floor. “Let me punch him in the  _ fucking nose _ .”

Ludwig feels as if he’s walking through a dream, his jaw oddly numb as he unclenches his teeth. He doesn’t recall when he’d begun to grit them, and his mouth is uncomfortably dry. He wets his lips with his tongue, managing English like swimming through a dream.

“It would not have done us any good.”

Alfred glances over in mild surprise at the sound of Ludwig’s voice, his anger draining into what Ludwig presumes must be concern. Alfred steps up to him and sighs.

“He wouldn’t have shot.” He reaches up, setting his hand on his shoulder and giving it a solid squeeze. “Are you okay, Lud?”

“Still. There was risk. Neither of us would want to explain me pulling your lifeless body across the border, and…” He softens at the earnest look in Alfred's eyes. “And I will recover.”

“No shit. That’d be messy, but you’re sure? If you don’t mind me asking, why did you want to leave so bad? I mean, I’m not that bad, am I?” Alfred cracks a grin, masking poorly his insecurity as he slides his hand off Ludwig’s shoulder and ghosts down his upper arm. 

He's fixed on Alfred's red frames instead of his eyes, tracing angled cheekbones with his vision and flitting across his pressed lips. The air is cold between them despite the broken air conditioning, raising goosebumps on his skin. Ivan has left a snowstorm in his wake, flakes falling wet and heavy between them and blurring the scene before his eyes. He can’t find words enough to stop the blizzard or will enough to quiet the rising gales as Alfred’s hand slips further from his arm and his body.

Coherency is drowned by the deadening snow, scrambled by the metaphorical flakes, yet Alfred is glowing. Ludwig's heartbeat thumps in his ears, words sticking in his throat and his head spinning with broken solutions, yet through the flooding white and before Alfred can remove his hand completely, Ludwig reaches forward and clasps his hands around it, warmth blooming at his fingers with the contact. He locks eyes with Alfred, and the snow stutters to a stop, leaving his mindscape, subdued and silent. For a moment the world ceases, leaving only Alfred and his warm blue eyes, Alfred and his breath catching in his throat. He brings Alfred's hand up to his lips, brushing his lips against his knuckles, his gaze fixed upon him all the while.

“No. You are not.” He swallows, releasing Alfred's hand at his side.

Alfred rubs his hand across the back of his neck, pink flushing across the light brown of his skin with an airy laugh. “ _ Shit _ , Lud. When’d you get moves?”

“I-” He blushes, his fingers drumming awkwardly against his own thighs. “I don’t…? My intention was to ensure you understood my sentiments towards you though I understand if it was excessive. I am more than willing to-”   


Alfred bridges the space between them, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His hands moves to the back of Ludwig's neck, his fingers threading through his fine hair and his breath blowing warmth on his skin. He moves up to Ludwig's ear, his breath tickling where it hits and his smile evident as his lips graze Ludwig’s cheek with a whisper. 

“Shut up. That was smooth as fuck. And hot. Don’t apologize.” He pulls back, still smiling. “But you’re good? You aren’t going to tear yourself up silently when we get back to your place?”

Ludwig is lightheaded from the sudden affection, all too aware that he cannot take what he gives. He blinks, his brows drawing in and his face heated. “Er, smooth-?”

“Yeah, Lud. Smooth. I’m not used to being the one in the ‘my hand’s being kissed’ position, but hey, really, are you okay? With Gil and everything?”

“I- well, physically, yes.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” His hand moves back to his shoulder. 

He hesitates. “You are aware of my actions. You are aware of my brother’s position. I, in no way,  _ want _ to subject myself to Russia’s whims, but that is why I needed to attempt to replace Gilbert.”

“Ludwig.” He frowns. “Ivan hates you. After Stalingrad, after… Either way, it would’ve been living hell if you’d succeeded. You know how Ivan is.”

“Gilbert is being put through it in my place. I-” He shakes his head. “It is done. I have failed. The least I can do now is rebuild what I have broken. There is no point in talking about it excessively.”

Forgiveness is too much to ask for from Francis, Roderich, Feliks, a million names set in glaring, red letters against his hands in his nightmares and in his mind during his days. He dares not hope for as much from his brother, not when Gilbert has given him his everything from his care to his instruction to a family in a world where nations are taught they must stand alone. Gilbert has been his constant, yet in the end, Ludwig’s given him nothing but a death sentence and a failure of a nation when he’s been given all he's needed to succeed. The cold settles in like ice on a lake, dragging him down to the inky depths.

“Hey, Lud, look at me.” Alfred brings his hand beneath his chin, tugging it gently in his direction. He holds his arms out in an offering of a hug.

Ludwig steps in, wrapping his arms around Alfred’s middle, and forgets why he’s supposed to care. Alfred slings his arms around his shoulders and pulls him in against his chest, exhaling against him, safer, gentler and familiar in the weight of Alfred’s arms across his shoulders and Alfred’s cheek against his own. His eyes fall closed, emotion choking him up to his throat.

“It’s going to be okay,” Alfred says, “This won’t be forever. We  _ will _ get Gilbert back.”

“I know. I have to.”

He tugs him closer. “Yeah, me, too. Gil’s going to come home, and he’ll be fine, and it’ll work out, I swear it. I mean, we both know how he is.”

“Stubborn as hell.” Ludwig murmurs.

“Exactly. Stubborn as hell.”

At that, Ludwig smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ²² The Federal Republic of Germany was established on March 23, 1949 though it wasn’t officially founded until September the 7th of that same year. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Germany)]_
> 
> ²³ To further extrapolate upon this, both America and the UK had combined their sectors of Germany into something known as the Bizone or Bizonia by January 1, 1947 in order to advance West Germany’s growing economy. By June 1, 1948, France combined their zone with the Bizone, creating the Trizone, though the reason why the French were late in the game was due to France attempting to prevent interstate coordination amongst the Germans in order to stifle progress. The combining of all three zones was, as Alfred said, largely brought about by a need for coherence within West Germany in order to spawn both constitutional and economic development. However, France was still reluctant even after their agreement. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bizone#History)]_
> 
> ²⁴ Ivan is making a reference to the forced labor of German POWs after WWII. The majority were, indeed, sent to the Soviet Union where ¾ were sent to reconstruct heavy industry and mines. The last of them were released in 1956. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forced_labor_of_Germans_in_the_Soviet_Union)]_


	9. February 17, 1950

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to my friend, [Shelbi](https://occupationlove.tumblr.com), for finding a reference for the footnotes! Thank you all for your support once again. It means so, so much! 
> 
> On a sidenote, I will hopefully be able to put out an update next week, but it's possible that I won't finish it in time, so apologies in advance. Any updates regarding hiatuses, etc. should be available [on tumblr](https://realmwrites.tumblr.com) when those come up. Happy reading! The aesthetic for this chapter will be found here.

_February 17, 1950_

Fresh snow crunches beneath heavy boots, songbirds’ voices drifting light on the breeze. The wind nips at his nose, and snowbanks line the edge of the trail, powder walls in nature’s cathedral. Snow coats the branches, dressing the evergreens in skirts and trim of sparkling white, and the sun casts winter light along the ice crystals cascading across both greenery and ground, snow dropping in showers from the rustling branches. Alfred pulls the straps of his backpack forward and exhales contentedly, his attention drifting towards Ludwig hiking at his side.

Ludwig stares ahead, his lips curved slightly upwards. The chill has left pink in his cheeks and nose, and his scarf is pulled up beneath the squared line of his jaw. The darkened trees and bleached snow reflect in the blue of his eyes, and a bright flutter ignites in Alfred's stomach as Ludwig rolls back his shoulders, exhaling a cloud of warm air. The strong muscles of his back and arms are returning to what they were before the war with the promise of Germany’s brightening future,²⁵ painting Ludwig like a classical hero against the rugged mountain face. Nature may be medicine for a harried soul, but in Alfred's own opinion, Ludwig is the sole wonder of nature bringing a smile to his face.

He moves closer to Ludwig’s side with a few steps diagonal.

“Damn, why have we never been out here before? I've been missing out big time.” He gestures towards the scene about them.

“It’s likely due to Gilbert’s hatred of Bavaria.²⁶ He would never have allowed it, and-” Ludwig glances over, but as their gazes lock, he stumbles over his words, flushing in mild surprise.

Alfred breaks into an ever wider smile, endeared by the sight, before recognizing that he is, indeed, staring openly at Ludwig as if he holds the stars. Heat climbs up into his cheeks, and he turns to the trail ahead, his hand rubbing his neck.

“I’ll just- I can admire the other breathtaking view! Don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Alfred laughs in an attempt to dispel his embarrassment, moving his gloved hand down from his neck and rubbing it against his other absentmindedly.

“No, it-”

He glances over, concerned as to whether or not he's worsened the situation. “Too much? I can tone it down.”

“No, no, you are fine. It was simply unexpected. I have no… qualms against any of your actions.”

“Are you sure? You can tell me if something’s bothering you.” Alfred is moving through a list of things he knows Ludwig worries over, attempting to pin down the one ailing him in the present. He gives a thumbs up as he continues. “It’s just us. You and me. Ludwig and Alfred. You already know this isn’t about, y’know, nation shit when we go places like this.”

“Of course… I appreciate it, and I sincerely hope this outing goes according to plan.”

He pauses in a subtle frown, unsure himself of whether to be worried. “Lud, babe, if I’m making you uncomfortable you can tell me. You talk like this is some sort of charity act on my part when I genuinely like hanging around you. I mean, you know this, right?”

He takes a breath, exhaling with a nod. “I… Yes.”

“And we can talk things through if you want?” He watches him with near skepticism, observing the way his eyebrows crinkle for a brief second before his response. He claps Ludwig on the shoulder and without really attempting to, notes how it isn’t just the jacket giving Ludwig’s back the appearance of muscle.

“No, it is alright. I… I only-” Ludwig swallows, blushing something fierce. “-I cannot reciprocate properly your advancements. Alfred, I… am _inexperienced_ in the field of flirtation.”

He offers him a reassuring smile and squeezes his shoulder, relieved to hear the issue is something smaller than post-war guilt. “Lud, you could just stand there, and I’d be happy because you’re fucking adorable, okay? You hanging out with me with your witty comments and efficiency shit and your cute enthusiasm and wow, your smiles? That’s more than enough. You keep being yourself, and I’ll enjoy your company because this is hella fine with me if it’s fine with you. I don’t expect you to do anything you don’t want to, Lud. Not when it comes to this kind of thing.”

Ludwig looks as if he’s been thrown in overdrive, tense in the way Alfred has learned to recognize as doubt rather than discomfort.

He clears his throat, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Thank you. I appreciate this. My intention… Alfred, I only look to become better company. It is… odd to me that you do not find me dull.”

A flock of birds calls out in the chilled stillness, swarming out of the bleached branches of the trees. His tone strikes a hidden chord within Alfred's chest, his lungs collapsing with the rawness of Ludwig's self-made belief. It's too similar to the way he feels when the world eyes him with nothing short of suspicion, and despite his best efforts to quell the uncomfortable reminders, regret runs hot through his heart. He’s all too aware that spawning war is far from the only way to call up contempt in the eyes of the world. Arrogance and hypocrisy are what they whisper when they think he’s closed his ears and shut his eyes. The poison slips from the lips of nations as close as Arthur and as distant as Ivan, eating holes in his shiny facade.

Yes, America has never been perfect; his claims are not always truths, but surely they must know men, though closer to gods the nations may be, require understanding and trust to survive. Every hero has his faults and every savior, his secrets thus Alfred, putting forth his best to rebuild the world into something greater, cannot see why they refuse to welcome him with opened arms. He cannot understand why they refuse to embrace the new age America hails in, so he calls Ivan the thorns choking out his golden fields, planting briars and thickets in his glory paved path.²⁷

He will admit there are very few who know him for himself or stay out of choice rather than necessity, and even now, he doubts whether Ludwig himself even knows.

But now is hardly the time for thoughts such as these.

He slows his pace and points out a level expanse just beyond the trail, swallowing down the awkward thoughts insecurity seems to bring.

“We should camp here!” He says, “But yeah, you’re great. You’re grounding, you know?”

Ludwig lights up in a gentle trace of a smile, deadening the regret in his mind with just this fond look in his direction. This, he muses, is why Ludwig is the eye of his storm. He jostles Ludwig’s arm in a playful gesture and starts up towards the meadow.

“If you really want to do something to reciprocate, we can always sit on snow chairs around the fire when the stars come up, and then, we can hold hands or some other sappy shit.” He winks.

He drops his backpack to the forest floor and watches Ludwig do the same, his face set in contemplation towards the ground. Alfred inhales, figuring he’s processing something beyond his comprehension, and turns his attention to the scenery about them, the treetops circling in a ring against the cloud strewn sky. The mountains rise around them like a snow-capped crown, seemingly untouched by the scars the war has left on Germany. The air itself is brisk and biting, picking up the strands of hair poking out from his cap and wisping its fingers across his skin. Alfred smiles, welcoming the majesty of nature about them, and steps towards Ludwig still frowning at his side.

He moves behind him, pressing his chest against Ludwig's back and setting his gloved hands on Ludwig’s jaw, his breath condensing in a cloud before them. Lifting his jaw gently, he rests his chin on Ludwig’s shoulder and whispers hushed against his ear.

“Lud, look up. It’s gorgeous.”

As his clear eyes move up to meet the crystal sky, Alfred is struck by how seamlessly Ludwig fits against his land. The crisp green of the trees below them creep up into threads of white spread like a gossamer net across the mountains, the clouds floating by like the blanket of a god above the peaks. Ludwig stands in the midst of the trees, straight backed and shoulders set, his breath clouding the space ahead. A flush deeper than just the chill dusts his cheeks, but unlike before, he relaxes against Alfred’s touch, observing the scene before them in silence.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? I can’t believe you kept this from me for this long.”

“Maybe I was afraid you would run off and become a mountain man after seeing how pretty my alps are.”

Alfred lowers his voice in a teasing manner as he drops his hands down to hang over Ludwig’s shoulders, smiling against his cheek. “What you should really be afraid of is me moving to Berlin for good after seeing how pretty _you_ are.”

Ludwig smiles in return and reaches back to cup his cheek, the fabric of his glove cool against his skin. Alfred’s heart skips a beat, bursting into fluttery joy as he observes the serenity on his face and the new ease of affection Ludwig’s growing comfort around him has allowed.

“I told you I am not pretty. In fact, you should be the one worrying about me moving to New York.”

“Psh, I know _I’m_ pretty, but you can’t really think you’re _not._ ”

Ludwig flushes, his thumb grazing light across his cheekbone. “I am… I am not. I would not think…”

“Think what? That you’re attractive?”

“Well. Well, yes, that is one way you could phrase it.”

“Sweet cheeks, you most definitely are flaming. Plus you’re filling out again.” He runs his hands down Ludwig’s sides to rest them on his hips. “Once your economy is back up to one hundred you’re probably going to be super buff, and besides, you just have a great facial structure. Lud, just look at these cheekbones and this jawline?” Alfred grins. “Could kill a man. I’m never lying when I say you’re cute.”

“Thank you.” He sounds a tad strained, leaving Alfred to presume that Ludwig has run out of words to say in return. He doesn’t mind.

“Honestly, you’re probably one of the best looking nations unless you aren’t into the intense look, I guess. I mean, arguably I could say Belarus is prettier, but number one, she’s scary as fuck, and number two, you’re more handsome than pretty, ya know?”

“I… Thank you. You, too.” Ludwig glances back from the corner of his eye, red in the face from embarrassment.

He slips away from Ludwig, moving over to and bending down by his bag. “What do you say we set up the tent, and then, you can think about it some more even though I swear I never lie about important shit like who’s hot or not.”

Ludwig sighs, still smiling like a vision and kneels down to help him with his bag.

 

* * *

 

The fire crackles red, the light cutting shadows across Ludwig’s handsome features and casting shapes along the snowy floor. To his back rise the pines, their spindly needles silhouetted against the mountains and the lone owl hooting from within the woods. The night air is bracing, and above them the darkened sky rolls out like a scarf, strewn with moonlight and sewn with glittering stars. It’s clear, the only clouds in the sky wisps of fluff passing on the gentle breeze, and the mountains have quieted, the snow deadening the sounds of nature’s night activities.

Alfred pulls his gaze up to the heavens and props his arm on the chair they’ve sculpted out of snow. The heat of the flames casts warmth on his skin, and his jacket lies unzipped at the front, the wind tousling the hair outside his hat. The only thing he’d change would be having his guitar and perhaps, a pair of skis, but guitars are better left at home when backpacking, and the mountains are still scattered with mines, making skiing a precarious affair.²⁸ Yet with Ludwig at his side, he can almost forget there’s ever been a time short of perfect.

It’s the hand slipping into his own, ungloved and chilled at the fingertips, that pulls his attention back to Ludwig beside him. He’s facing ahead, face flushed and lips pursed, tentative despite his decisive action. His palm splays out against his own, his fingers shifting in a search for a proper resting place, and Alfred threads their fingers together, scooting up beside him and pressing their thighs together with a smile. Ludwig seems brimming with the unspoken, so Alfred waits and listens.

There’s a beat of silence before Ludwig speaks, his tone earnest.

“Alfred, you are exceptional.”

It’s not at all what he’s expected, not solemn conviction, not open blue eyes fixed on him, the flames leaping in the reflection of his eyes.

He tries for nonchalance, still tripping over his tongue. “I- What brings this about?”

“You must be aware of it.” Ludwig meets his gaze, expression frank and unapologetic. “You are magnetic. People are drawn to you. Your confidence is unique, and your outlook on life is refreshing. It is… intoxicating? It only seems unfair that you are always the only one expressing your positive sentiments towards me without any reciprocation on my part. I… admire you, Alfred. You are not like the rest of us.”

Alfred blinks in surprise, flattered yet concerned as to whether Ludwig truly sees him as he is. He squeezes his hand, smiling though uncertain. “Thanks, Lud! You make me sound really great, but you know I’m not always super sure of myself, right?”

“I do not think you are always self-assured. It is difficult to be without being an idiot which you are, surprisingly, not.” He says, hiding the traces of a smile.

He grins back and bumps their shoulders together. “Hey, now, that wasn’t me asking you to tell me the truth or some shit. My fragile ego will shatter if you tell me your true thoughts.”

“My apologies, Mr. Jones. It would be such a tragedy if a brilliant mind such as yourself was broken by my ill-intentioned comments.” He sets their held hands on his knee, looking fondly down at their interlaced fingers. “...But what is the truth is that you are uplifting. It is easier to believe I am someone worth the time of day with you here. In a way, you are the sunshine after the storm which is a… dull means of expressing anything in relation to you, but I am not good with flowery words.”

Ludwig glances up, reserved in a way only just concealing his apprehension, his nose still bitten by the cold and his pale hair whipping across his forehead in the breeze. A lump sits in Alfred's throat, a tender fluttering spawning in his gut. From most, a declaration of ‘golden boy’ and ‘sunbeam’ would be nothing more than a spark of validation, but as Ludwig holds his gaze, candid and expectant, something hot burns oil off his chest like starlight liquefying in his gut. Alfred laughs and rests his head against Ludwig’s shoulder, lying his free hand on Ludwig’s thigh, far more flustered than one might’ve expected.

“ _Goddamn,_ you’ll be the death of me. That was actually fucking smooth.”

Ludwig leans in, burying his face in his hair and planting a kiss on his head. “Call it payback then, _schatzi_.”

“Damn, are we stepping up our pet names game, baby cakes?” He grins, his eyes moving up to Ludwig resting against the top of his head. “Or is this more payback, sugar pie?”

“Mm, you will win.” Ludwig flushes, moving away to leave a kiss on his forehead. “I am not excessively creative in the pet names department.”

“Awh, you can’t give up that quickly, sweetheart.” He hums, watching the flames die down and turn the wood to ash before them.

“Sunshine then? Like the song, ‘You are my Sunshine’.” He suggests, his voice sleep-laden as he yawns.

Alfred pops up from where he’s seated, looking up to him in question. He moves his free hand up to his face, cupping his jaw and turning him towards him. “You tired, Lud? We can go in and cuddle instead if you want.”

He nods. “Maybe. Yes. It feels late.”

Alfred stands, pulling Ludwig up with him, their hands still held between them. He shoots him a smile, bumping his hip with his own as he guides them towards the tent. “Probably ‘cause it is, Luddy. Probably ‘cause it is.”

They move into the tent in silence, him first with Ludwig just after, clambering in atop their mats and sleeping bags set on the floor. It’s chilly, but nothing unbearable and nothing they aren’t prepared for, yet it’s still a relief to scoot over towards his sleeping bag and burrow into its folds. A muffled snort escapes Ludwig to his side, drawing his attention back over to Ludwig who’s tugged closed the tent zipper and crawled back over to his side, shimmying into his own sleeping bag with a smooth maneuver of his hips. It’s the look of amusement on his face that draws Alfred’s attention, eliciting a suspicious narrowing of his eyes and a scooting closer towards Ludwig in his bag.

“What’s so funny?”

“You look like a large green worm.”

Alfred stares at Ludwig incredulously, breaking into a smile himself. “Yeah? Like you’re one to talk, baby doll. You look like a giant _gray_ worm.”

“Green is more ridiculous.”

“Please, you’re…” He trails off, recognizing the error in his statement. “I was going to say you’re more ridiculous, but I sort of feel like that’s unlikely.”  
  
“That would depend entirely on your definition of ridiculous.”

He turns over, his front now facing Ludwig properly, and brings his expression down into a perfect deadpan. He pauses for effect, stating in monotone. “Giant gray worms.”

Ludwig snorts again, shaking his head and turning onto his back. “You are more tired than me. Sleep, Alfred. Your sanity is leaving you.”

“Psh, I’m perfectly sane. You’re the one who called me a giant green worm.”

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Alright, alright. _Gute nacht_ , Lud. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

He flops onto his back himself, smiling at the fabric above.

The wind is still audible, the needles rustling in the breeze and the snow dropping from the branches in muffled thumps to the ground. The sleeping bag envelopes him in billowy comfort, and he sighs, pulling off his glasses and setting them above his head. He slips his arms back in his bag and watches the shadows dance above their heads.

He shifts, reminders of nights spent on the march dragging half-beaten through his mind. It’s funny how the war has changed them all, some for the better and others for the worst. Ludwig has changed drastically, torn down from his arrogant vindication and ruthless destruction, maturing into someone Alfred believes he always was deep down. Ludwig is far more dedicated than he, effective and dutiful, and he pushes hard for a hopeful future for his people without a word of complaint. It’s part of what he admires about Ludwig, but Alfred knows he craves the spotlight far too much to trade recognition for efficacy.

It’s the recognition he longs for, the world in gold tinted shades tossing roses on the stage of nations and calling praises to his name. He itches to hear that he has transformed humanity for the better, torn the old tradition of oppression, of inequality, of fear to the ground and thrown open the doors to a future of brilliance and light. Alfred longs to be the one who rains freedom down upon the people. God is dead, and the world is strewn with ashes, yet he holds fast to the title of peacemaker as his own. He holds true to the promise of change in the future.

But doubt still gathers in a whirlpool, dragging him down to the murky depths. Sometimes he questions when America will lay down his gun and embrace the world instead of bloody it, but with each war he wins, each city he levels, each evil he annihilates, more crop up like weeds within his Eden. He questions whether fire is best fought with fire when pulling back will still light his nation up in flames. Does he keep burning; does he risk razing the world to the ground with his storming justice, or does he allow Ivan to crawl on the stage and spell eternal winter on them all by Alfred's inaction?

Unease boils up in his stomach, dropping black in his vision and red on his hands. No matter how many more might have perished without him, there are still too many dead on his conscience, too many hungry beneath his watch. He swallows, glancing over at Ludwig, and pushes up from his mat.

In near unison, Ludwig’s eyes flutter open, unaware of his observation.

Alfred pushes off the flap of his sleeping bag and watches Ludwig unzip his jacket and set it at his side, his eyes still drooping with sleep. He chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, Lud?” He exhales, reaching over and flipping on the lamp set between their bags.

“Mm?” Ludwig looks over, his hair in his face and his hat slipping off his head. It’s endearing, pulling up cheer in the gloom, but the reminders of his intention claw back up his throat. He scoots forward, his palms facing upwards.

“Ludwig, I try not to lie to you, but it feels like I’m lying to everyone.”

“What?”

Regret settles like a stone in his gut, Ludwig’s assertion of confident, of bright, of good in him crumbling like dead leaves on the wind. It’s a mistake to equate action with infallibility and strong words for imperturbability.

“Do you ever feel like it’s all a game of fucking charades? Like you’re acting, I don’t know, fake to everyone around you?”

The sleep has left Ludwig’s form, his eyes narrowing in mild confusion. He turns his bag in Alfred’s direction, cross legged beneath its folds. “Are you alright, Alfred?”

He chews on his lip, nervous yet determined to speak. “Okay, this sounds fucking stupid, I know, but it almost feels like no matter how hard we try we just… can’t get it right?”

To Ludwig's credit there's barely a beat of hesitancy before his response, leaving little time to wallow in second guesses. “What do you mean?”

“I want to help people and fix everything that’s fucked up, and I have the ability- or I should- but it’s all so fucked. It’s fucked, Ludwig. I kill more than I save.”

He frowns, effectively unreadable in the lamp light’s sudden luminosity. “Do you mean to say it feels pointless?”

“I mean, that’s the thing. It’s not pointless. We’re all supposed to do the best we can to make a difference, but how do I know if anything I do is done with the right motives? I want people to see me as a good guy, but it feels so self-serving. I’m not as great as you think I am.” He smiles helplessly in Ludwig’s direction, his face blurred by his impaired vision. He doesn't know what he's saying. “Sorry, I just feel shitty letting you think I am.”

“Alfred…” He leans over, retrieving Alfred’s glasses and sliding them gently on his face. “No one does anything without expecting something in return. It is human nature.”

“You’re right. Yeah, you’re right. It just… It just feels so selfish?” He rubs his hands together, the night chill seeping into his bones and numbing his fingers.

It’s difficult to explain the sinking weight in his stomach, difficult to describe the hopeless white of the walls in every meeting room he enters. He has no right to complain, but Ludwig clasps his warm hands around his cold ones and dispels momentarily the dismal thoughts.

“It is not selfish to wish to be loved as a human. That is also human nature. Do you not believe that love should be mutualism?” Ludwig looks him dead in the eye, his tone an odd mix between searching and level. It isn’t accusatory, but it’s far from misgiving.

Alfred exhales, nodding slowly as he processes the logic behind his statement. It makes sense, and though a part of him wonders if it’s Ludwig’s sharp gaze, filled with concern and measured intensity, doing the majority of the convincing, he falls into a smile, slipping his hands out of Ludwig’s and setting them on his biceps.

“That’s… That’s actually sensible! Thanks, Lud…” He runs his hands down Ludwig’s upper arms to his elbows, laughing breathily. “Wow, I’m weirdly relieved now? Fuck, I could kiss you.”

Ludwig wets his lips, his gaze shifting towards Alfred’s hands on his arms. “Maybe you should.”

He’s thrown off guard, caught in muted surprise.

Ludwig is pale in the lamplight, drawn smooth in curving shadowed strokes. His cheekbones sit high on his face, and his eyes stay fixed upon him, keen and blue. He looks like an ancient statue chiseled out of marble in the likeness of the gods even half asleep and his hair tousled astray. Alfred remembers to breathe only seconds later, recalling the reason why he’d met Ludwig’s gaze at all. He falls back into a smile and bends in towards his lips.

“I _am_ stealing your sleep. Might as well steal your lips while I’m at it.”

He closes the distance between them, catching Ludwig’s lips in a kiss and pushing him back against the mat, their legs moving out in a tangled mess. Ludwig wraps his arms around his waist and laughs softly, letting momentum and gravity pull them to the floor as his hat falls from his head. Alfred hauls himself up on his forearms, placed on either side of Ludwig’s head and drops his hips over his, pressing their lips back together. There's bursting heat, red and white and things beyond colors he can't quite describe. He pushes Ludwig’s hair from his face, smiling against his lips, as Ludwig shifts the angle of their mouths against each other’s, giddy disbelief firing cannons in his mind.

Ludwig sets his hands gently on Alfred's hips, his touch like steam condensing on his skin, and Alfred slides down, kisses falling languid and opened mouthed against his jaw. Ludwig tightens his grip on his hips, something unintelligible leaving noiselessly from his lips. Alfred follows the hard curve of his jaw to his neck, finding art in his skin and skin in his art, the contact between them as heated as embers drawn red from the fire. Ludwig’s muttered German is prayers falling to his ears.

This, Alfred muses, is stealing more than his lips.

He brings his hand down to Ludwig’s shoulder, splaying fingers against skin where his shirt has slipped down and keeps his other arm forearm-down above his shoulder. He pulls back, hovering above Ludwig. He's flushed, lips parted and wet. His hair is mussed, and his shirt, pulled askew, the bottom hem riding up to reveal smooth stomach muscle.

Ludwig huffs, one hand moving from his hip to Alfred’s hand on his collarbone.

“Your hands are freezing.”

Alfred grins, untangling his legs from Ludwig’s to kneel over him, one leg set on either side of his hips. Without a word, he pushes his hands up Ludwig’s shirt, his fingertips brushing scars and dipping over muscle as he plants simultaneously a sloppy kiss on his lips.

“ _Shit,_ you are so cold!” Ludwig yelps in surprise, slipping into German with a curse.

He spreads his fingers against Ludwig’s chest, hovering just above him, their lips nearly touching. “See, but _you’re_ warm.”

Ludwig reddens further, his gaze moving lower and the hand by the floor running hesitant down Alfred’s side to his lower back.

His voice lowers, almost shy yet teasing. “Mr. Jones… If I did not know better I would suspect you are attempting to seduce me with your freezing hands.”

“ _Herr Beilschmidt_ .” He tuts, matching his voice with his expression. “You should know by now that I’m strictly business. Having… relations with a respectable colleague? How risqué. You expect more of me, don’t you?” He dips in, his hands moving outwards from the middle against his chest and his lips brushing Ludwig’s, his tone playful. “That would be nothing less than a _scandal_.”

Ludwig returns the kiss, his hands running electric along his hips, pausing just above his thighs. He drags his fingers down Ludwig’s chest, skating ribs and crossing muscle, their mouths melding together like gold under fire. It feels like iron and carbon coursing through his veins, brought up to the surface of his skin like molten steel by Ludwig’s fingers digging into his hips and his mouth hot against his own. He brings his hands lower towards Ludwig’s thighs, grasping his rear along the way.

Ludwig makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, and without warning, he pushes his hands to Alfred's chest and shoves him up, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown out in a mix of emotion.

There’s a moment of quiet, the silence filled in by heavy breathing until Alfred sits back, resting his weight back on Ludwig’s hips. He reaches forward to brush away his hair from his eyes, new worry in his expression.

“Are you… okay?”

“Er.” Ludwig shifts beneath him, his hands moving back to Alfred’s hips. “Yes?”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to get off? Did I hurt you?”

“I am fine physically. I…” He looks at a loss for words, uncomfortable beneath Alfred’s scrutiny.

He slides off of Ludwig, moving to sit cross-legged beside him. “You aren’t comfortable with anything more?”

He pulls himself upright and pauses, his legs stretched out before him and his hands resting awkwardly on his knees. Flushing, he looks over at Alfred, combing a hand through the loose locks of his hair, his expression disoriented. “...I… Yes.”

“Okay, that’s fine! We can stop. I didn’t- Sorry.” He flushes himself, his hand moving to his neck and the other to his knee. “I should’ve asked in the beginning.”

“No, you are alright. I apologize. I…”

Alfred waits expectantly, understanding it isn’t ideal for him to continue finishing Ludwig’s sentences. Ludwig scoots forward, reaching for his hand and clasping it in his own, his gaze set somewhere upwards.

“I have not been able to properly educate myself on these… things. Because of this it is likely that I am unable to properly carry out the… actions necessary for intercourse unless I am interpreting the situation incorrectly. I’m sorr-”

“No, don’t apologize!” He squeezes his hand in reassurance, a smile playing up on his lips. “Oh my god, no, don’t apologize. If you don’t want to have sex we don’t have to have sex. I mean I _can_ teach you if that’s what you’re worried about, but if you’re not ready- I just- Damn, I didn’t expect you to be a virgin.”

Ludwig swallows, tugging down the hem of his shirt. “Er, yes. I… I suppose I am.”

“I mean, it’s not funny! That’s good…? Back when I was a colony I thought I was going to, I don’t know, save myself for marriage. Clearly, that didn’t work out, but it’s not a bad thing even if I didn’t manage it which I’m now realizing is kind of an awkward thing to tell you right now. Should I stop talking?”

Ludwig fixes him with a look.

“Right, right. I’m not talking. You talk, Lud. Yup.”

“No, it is alright. Only… you are not… upset?”

“Why would I- What? No!” He moves closer before pausing a respectable distance away. “You’re okay if I come closer, right? I’m really hoping I didn’t scar you that badly, but I get it if I did. You’re allowed to set boundaries and all in case you feel like you can’t.”

“No, you are fine. I just… Did not wish to continue further on that path. I would not be against a… hug.”

“That I can definitely do.” He moves in closer, settling himself back in Ludwig’s lap and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He buries his face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of the smoke from the fire and something else distinctly Ludwig- like pine needles and fresh bread and subtly, sweat. “You okay though, Lud?”

Ludwig reciprocates the hug with a sigh of relief, one arm pressing gently against Alfred’s head and the other against his back, his voice muffled as he presses his lips against his cheek. “I am alright. You are sure you are not disappointed?”

“Nah, nah, Lud. Don’t worry about me. Like I said, there’s no reason to do anything you aren’t completely comfortable with when it comes to personal shit like this. We’re not humans. We’ve got a fucking long while. Don’t sweat it, okay? We can just cuddle.”

He pulls back enough to shimmy back into his sleeping bag, gesturing for Ludwig to do the same. Ludwig follows suit before slipping back in his arms, his chin resting on Alfred’s shoulder.  He removes his glasses, reaching for Ludwig’s hat and pulling it back over his head, drawing into the warmth of their shared body heat. He leaves a kiss on Ludwig's forehead, endeared by the sight of his eyelids fluttering closed and his pale lashes lying light against his cheeks.

“You’re so cute. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“It is fine, but if you are concerned about stealing my sleep, it is probably better to refrain from speaking.”

“Getting snarky now, are we?” He sighs contentedly, no bite to his words as he entangles his legs with Ludwig’s and yawns. “You’re right though. Smart man. Goodnight, Lud.”

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ²⁵ By the early 1950s, Germany was experiencing the Wirtschaftswunder, or the Miracle on the Rhine, as West Germany's economy made a rapid, booming recovery from the losses of WWII. It began in 1948 with the introduction of the Deutsche Mark. _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wirtschaftswunder)]_
> 
> ²⁶ Prussia and Bavaria have a traditionally strong dislike for one another which can be seen in the insult “pig Prussian” used in the south where Bavaria is situated to refer to those in the north where Prussia was situated. A prime example of this animosity is when Bavaria allied with Austria rather than Prussia during the Austro-Prussian War (the Unification War). _[[x](http://www.spiegel.de/international/backward-southerners-frigid-northerners-germany-s-real-divide-a-407053.html)]_ _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austro-Prussian_War)]_
> 
> ²⁷ There are, to this day, many land mines and bombs left over from WWII scattered throughout Europe. They pose a serious safety hazard and have been known to go off even in modern times when disturbed. _[[x](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/seventy-years-world-war-two-thousands-tons-unexploded-bombs-germany-180957680/)]_
> 
> ²⁸ While countries such as the UK were, for the most part, on good terms with America, there were still varying levels of suspicion held towards America by friend and foe alike due in part to its rapid rise to power following WWII. Alfred is heavily referencing the Cold War which began in 1945 and the mutual dislike between America and Russia that followed. The paranoia and secrecy of what would become the Red Scare is reflected here as well as America viewing itself as a beacon of hope to the world. Alfred, as the nation personification, followed the same path. _[[x](https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/09592296.2011.549732)]_ _[[x](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_in_the_1950s)]_


	10. February 25, 1952

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking through with me! Your comments, tags, kudos, reblogs, etc. are really what make my day, and I look forward to seeing all of your thoughts every week! You are my greatest source of encouragement. <3 A special thanks to my beta reader, [Rainy](https://regneriisch.tumblr.com), for being a lifesaver.
> 
> Unfortunately, I will be taking a hiatus to stock back up on chapters after this update. I can't say for sure when I'll be back, but hopefully, this chapter, long as it is, will hold y'all off until I am. I'm sure you'll all be glad I ended on this chapter, not the next one. You'll see what I mean when it's up... ;) But please enjoy! Here's the link to this chapter's aesthetic.

_February 25, 1952_

 

* * *

_The rink is buzzing with the crowd’s drowning hum, stadium lights and beaming faces blurring to streaks of color against the stands. The chilled air sings across his skin. His heartbeat thrums from his head to his toes, and anticipation weaves through the crowd. Ludwig runs his hands along his thighs and strains to hear names between the announcer’s Norwegian with painstaking care. He’s never had the chance to learn the language, yet between the foreign sounds familiarity in what little he does know seeps through. As ‘from Germany’ reverberates through the crowd, two skaters enter the rink, hands clasped between them and faces alight, their dazzling smiles and measured movements beating flames in his chest._

_“Ria Baran and Paul Falk!²⁹”_

_The crowd bursts into applause, excitement hurtling waves along its current. Ludwig can feel the energy, electric in the air and searing on his skin. Hope tugs at his gut, his duty as Germany spurring on a burning pride. The pair loops around the rink, their blades cutting audibly against the ice and the held breath of the crowd palpable between the scraping sound._

_He holds his breath as their song’s opening notes rise on the night air._

 

* * *

 

Ludwig strides through the city streets as Oslo’s nightlife blinks into existence with the dying of the sun. Cars with headlights flashing rumble past the hospital lodgings,³⁰ and athletes of all nationalities stroll out to the streets, pouring a cocktail of languages on the urban cacophony. Half the moon hangs like a broken saucer in the sky, casting pale light on him and the cold sidewalk beneath, his shadow drawn and strung between the streetlights. He exhales, his breath condensing in a cloud before him, and his coat whips about his legs in the breeze. He's alone, but in the present, it's the way he prefers it.

Germany won seven medals in all; three gold; two in bobsleigh and one in pairs figure skating.³¹

He knows there’ve been better years, but between the frustrations the last few days have hailed, there have been ups between his lows. He’s reclaimed a pride he hasn’t felt in years, and though it’s the evening after the last of the events, rekindled excitement still sings through his blood. The Olympics have lightened the weight reconstruction has laid on his shoulders, freeing him to embrace fulfillment in his people and let joy outweigh the sick thing in his stomach pulling up reminders of what his pride last brang.

But today is also the anniversary of Prussia’s abolition, and this solitude is yet another tugging reminder. 

Gilbert's absence at both his side and the world stage is nothing new, but it's achingly difficult to break a habit of expecting one's brother at every corner. East Germany denied a combined Olympic team, yes.³² Ludwig longs to make things right and see Gilbert alive and well, yes. But the thought of reopening discussion so close to the anniversary of his brother’s practical death rips open anew the healing scars in his mind. People and solutions have been set out of his reach whether of his own accord or another's, and perhaps, for good reason. There’s little to be done. 

He tosses the end of his scarf over a shoulder and starts back down the street. He senses other nations still within the city. Their sideways glances are sewn fresh in his memories, but then again, what more did he expect?³³

Lukas Bondevik. Mathias Kohler. The nations of Scandinavia, acquaintances under the least preferred of circumstances, had spoken to him the night of downhill skiing. Forced pleasantries and pointless small talk; he’d seen all too well the looks they’d tossed his way when they’d thought he’d gone. He'd heard the hushed whispers in languages he couldn’t decipher, but by now he doesn't need to hear the words to know what the nations mutter behind his back. By now he expects the terse nods and hurried mentions of the weather. And by now he’s nearly numb to the cutting, stolen glances.

He passes by the first bar he comes upon. He wishes he could dissolve into the throngs of strangers rather than trap himself amongst the familiar. Hiding, he knows, is far from a solution, but he's tired of being watched like a wolf on the leash of the West, maimed and halfway rabid. He moves further from the city’s heart into a quieter, darker set of streets. The bars grow emptier until he settles on one at random. He tries the door leading to a lower floor level club and slips in. He flips his coat collar up, his chin up and his gaze leveled, regretting now the lack of anonymity his hat provides. 

The steps are a gray concrete, the brick of the walls and the color of its paint bleached in the filtered moonlight. He turns the corner at the bottom and pushes into the bar. Voices filter in from the back, cigar smoke wafting out and filling his nose. The ambient sounds cut into distinctive words, the lights dimmed above the patrons. He weaves between the tables, stepping up to the bar and taking his seat at a stool. The man closest is two over, offering him nothing more than a disinterested glance before turning back to his drink. Ludwig exhales at the apathy, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he'd been holding as the bartender sets down a mug. The rag goes down with it, and he leans against the counter and wrings his hands to his side, beginning in monotone Norwegian.

Ludwig waits for him to finish, having caught nothing more than a few odd words. In what little of the language he knows, he says, “Sorry. Do you speak English?”

His accent betrays him as German, and before the words have left his mouth, the man at his side casts a poisoned look in his direction. It draws tight the cords around Ludwig’s heart. He pretends he doesn’t notice. Instead, he sets his attention towards the still indifferent bartender. The man waves dismissively and shifts into heavily accented English. 

“I do. What drink?”

“I will take a beer. Thank you.”

The man nods, reaching for a bottle and a glass.

He swears the eyes of the men around him are fixed on him in itching suspicion. He hates how he’s ashamed of being recognized as German. With a sigh, his gaze drifts towards the label on the beer, watching as the golden liquid pours from bottle to glass.

He processes between the man’s fingers and his dismal thoughts: _Hansa_. An average beer, he muses, but he isn’t here for quality, just something that will comfortably numb.

Behind him, the door swings open, drawing the barbed glances of the man to his side away from him and towards the latest arrival. The newcomer’s footsteps fall across the wood floors and move between the radio’s hum in his direction, breaking the thin film of the bar’s dead humming. Ludwig doesn’t dare look back, not wanting to draw more attention to himself than necessary. He is a deer pinned amongst lions, his gaze set ahead and his hands laid motionless atop the counter.

The man will pass him by. He must.

The bartender steps up to him once more, sliding his glass on the counter with tired impassivity. His nails are bitten short on the fingers wrapped around Ludwig’s glass, and Ludwig is oddly aware of the hair on the man’s arm as he nods his thanks, his vision too wide and too focused all at once.

The footsteps stop behind him.

The stranger’s breath is tangible on the bar’s stifled air, pushing through cigar smoke and meaningless whispers. He sits beside him, and Ludwig’s heartbeat is heavy in his head. He isn’t afraid. Fear is reserved for Russia and war, and there’s something too familiar about the stroke of this man’s nose beneath his hat and the sliding of his arm across the counter, cornered in Ludwig’s vision.

The man leans forward on his stool and speaks in quiet English.

“His drinks are on me.” He pushes kroner notes towards the bartender, and his voice is _aggravatingly_ familiar- steady and considered.

Recognizing his accent as far from European, Ludwig turns, and finds instead the face of Matthew Williams facing the innards of the bar. His throat tightens, taking in the rugged lines of his face. It's clear he's Alfred's brother, yet he’s set rounded and harder where Alfred is sunspots and angles. He’s lighter in the threshed wheat of his hair where Alfred’s dark blond, sporting freckled pale skin where Alfred’s is soft brown. It’s only his eyes that are darker, the passage of time far more evident in Matthew’s eyes than it's ever been in Alfred's.

Matthew addresses the bartender, strained between veiled stress and something indecipherable. “I’ll have a beer myself. Thank you.”

The man does as requested, leaving Matthew’s attention to shift to him alone.

“Beilschmidt,” he says. His words are like the ice in a drink, syllables clinking against invisible glass.

“Williams.” A breath. “Thank you for the drink.”

Matthew gestures towards said drink as the bartender passes him his, his fingers curling around the glass. “Please feel free. I'm not here to stop you.”

Ludwig tips his glass back in acquiescence, the beer rushing burnt down his throat. He lowers it, and his eyebrows draw in. “Were you… in need of something?”

“In a way? My brother’s looking for you.” He says, his glass untouched and held aloft beneath his lips. His tone alone suggests he lacks the arrogance of Alfred or Ivan, but a quiet understanding of one's character. He attempts polite eye contact at careful distance, and Ludwig cannot blame him for his detachment, considering the circumstances in which they'd last met.

His statement processes moments later, and Ludwig chokes on the sip he’s taken, coughing into his arm.

“Alfred- He is!?”

Matthew stares at him for a heavy second before tipping his glass back and downing the entirety of its contents, setting it down with a whistling exhale.

“ _Fuck’s sake, Al_.” He murmurs in French, and then, switches back into English. “I won’t ask for confirmation, but I’ve known Alfred for a long time. He isn’t level headed. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret, and please go see him.”

Despite himself, Ludwig feels a flush blossom across his cheeks as the realization of Matthew’s presumption hits him. He clears his throat, grappling for a semblance of dignity. “Where is he?”

“He’s checking other bars, but at the hour he should be back by the river.” He names a street. “It’s where he said he and I could rendezvous.” The French slides like light syrup off his tongue. 

He cannot help but wonder if it was Alfred or Matthew who suggested searching the bars. He doesn’t doubt Matthew’s ability to read him after this brief exchange alone, but he almost hopes this was Alfred's work. He knows it isn’t right to expect the good to chase him when his chasing of all else has reigned fire and brimstone upon the world, but Alfred has made not hoping for the impossible much more difficult. 

“Thank you,” he says.

Matthew nods, finishing his drink with another tilt back of his head. “It’s nothing, but you think you’ll find him alright?” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Matthew nods again in response, picking himself up from his seat and walking out the door. 

Ludwig watches him go. Lulled once again by the radio's melodies, the chord progressions spinning him memories of simpler times and easier company. He reaches for his glass, staring down its contents. Did Matthew know because Alfred told him? If so, who else? He takes a swig, blinking back the mounting terror in the back of his mind, and allows the burning alcohol to slide down his throat. Knowledge of him and Alfred being closer than business would aid neither of them. He isn't ashamed, but he fears Alfred is another matter entirely, and Ludwig isn't ready for his worries to be confirmed. Willful ignorance is far simpler. 

He debates on striking back out to the streets in search of Alfred's shadow, to chase after what he and Matthew know he can't turn away, but a weight in his chest holds him back. Anxieties run bricks through his person, tying him to his stool. It's pathetic to run to Alfred at his beck and call no matter how indebted he remains and how much he longs to. He's fallen too far, and it’s high time he stopped. He grips his empty cup, a voice in his head whispering ‘another beer, and then you go.’ It's right. Ludwig needs another drink. 

He barely has time to call over the bartender before the door flies wide and footsteps beat out against the floor. A hand slaps his shoulder in good natured greeting, and Alfred's voice runs along his side. 

“Hey, stranger. Can I buy you a drink?” 

Ludwig's heart skips a beat, and he can't bring himself to care. 

“I- You are sure?” 

Alfred allows his hand to linger on his back for a moment longer than can be accidental and moves into the seat beside him. He slides into hushed French as if it's the most natural thing in the world. “Darling, you know what day I missed. Let me treat you.” 

Ludwig has half a mind to tell him the tone of his statement remains no matter the language, but Alfred runs his hand discreetly over Ludwig's wrist, and he forgets how to think. Alfred shifts back into English with a grin. 

“Drinks on me then?” 

Ludwig hesitates, still piecing together what Alfred could mean before it hits him. Of course. The fourteenth of February is Valentine's Day, and he's missed it as well. 

It's not as if he’s particularly fond of the date or has observed it in the past. After all, it’s difficult to do so without a lover, but in recent years, the holiday _has_ gained more traction in his country. It's thanks to the Americans and, in his opinion, a little frivolous, but as of now, he can't find reason to complain. He shakes his head in response to the drinks.

“I had one already. I would rather not spend tonight in a bar.” _At least not if you're here._

Alfred smiles wider and stands. “I'm hella down for leaving. Have you been down to the harbor at night?”

Ludwig turns to face him, and only then does he truly see him.

His coat looks awfully flattering across his shoulders, and his pants fit wonderfully along his thighs. He looks good, but then again, he always does, and Ludwig knows he’s staring. He tears his gaze away and pretends he isn’t affected by Alfred’s knowing smile. He stands  from his stool and nods for Alfred to lead the way. Alfred takes them out to the street, the hum of the radio and whispers of the patrons fading into the city humdrum around them.

Alfred jitters like a cricket in a cage, his breath visible in a swirling cloud before him and the moonlight glinting off his frames. Ludwig smiles despite himself, sliding his hands in his pockets, and moves ahead down the street, Alfred hurrying to fall in step beside him. The buildings crop up like silhouettes and lighted squares against the spread of the sky, and the moon hangs close to the midnight zenith. The sounds of traffic from further within the city and the wind mix in with Alfred’s humming, his anxiety quieted by contentment.

They stroll towards the busier sections of the city, the lights raising and the noises blurring further together. Alfred stops, a telltale glimmer in his eye, and Ludwig already knows to brace himself for whatever will follow. Alfred gestures to a skating rink at their side, expectant.

“Ludwig, want to go ice skating?”

Ludwig stops, observing the odd skaters scattered across the rink. A couple lights across the ice, giggling as they fall over one another in stark contrast to the grace of Germany’s champion pair. To their side, a lone girl loops figure eights with calm precision, oblivious to the world. Ludwig exhales, aware of Alfred fixed hopeful on him. He looks to the lighted rink and to Alfred again, an itching desire to take a chance and hope it will repay him taking hold. With an inhale, he nods and lets his lips play up in the slightest smile.

“Only since I missed your Valentine’s Day. I will pay, but I hope you are aware that I cannot skate.”

“I’m sure you can skate, and no way! I’m paying. My holiday, my treat.”

“Just as you said I can dance?” He cocks a brow, surprised himself by the wonders the night air is doing for his humor, and starts off towards the ticket booth without a glance back. “Either way, I am paying. You always pay, and it is time this changed.”

“Hey, you weren’t bad at dancing plus I’m pretty sure you’ve got fine balance in a fight; all you need is some confidence.” He hurries to match Ludwig’s pace, stepping up to his side and lowering his voice with a smile. “I’ll teach you how to skate as long as you promise to let me hold your hand. Our excuse can be that you keep almost falling, and no one will disagree since no one will want to see your pretty face come to harm.” 

“I-” Ludwig nearly chokes on his spit, warmth rushing up to his cheeks. The most he manages is a question and avoiding imploding on the spot. “Is it better to fall forward then?”

“Hm, I’m not sure? I’m guessing it’s best to fall on your ass, but let’s be real, I doubt anyone, especially not me, wants any harm coming to your ass either.” Alfred has the audacity to wink, and as if fate is conspiring against him, they reach the ticket booth a second later, giving him no time to respond.

Ludwig prays his face isn’t as red as it feels and fixes his gaze on the young man at the booth.

“How can I help you?” The man says in English, and he's forced to wonder if he's overheard their exchange.

Instead of giving himself a heart attack, Ludwig moves mentally on and rents two skates for an hour. He thanks the man as he completes the transaction, and the man waves him off with a smile.

Alfred is waiting for him with a grin, but before Ludwig can ask what he's thinking, he ushers him over to the bench by the rink, the lightness in his step more than convincing of something pleasant in store. The breeze runs its fingers through his hair, brushing by his skin, and the lights overhead cast bright white on the scenery about them. The skates hang from their laces in his hands, each white and silver-bladed, and the wind nips at his nose. They reach the bench. Alfred seats himself and pats the bench beside him while Ludwig shrugs his jacket off, folding it and laying it to the side. He takes the seat he's been offered and begins pulling off his shoes.

“Did I ever tell you it's hot as fuck when you speak English?” Alfred says with perfect nonchalance, his head lowered as he, too, begins undoing his shoes.

Ludwig pauses in disbelief, the tips of his ears heating up. He hands Alfred his skates and clears his throat. “I do not understand what you are implying.”

“I mean.” He keeps quiet, but Ludwig can hear every word, drawled long in Alfred's round tones. “I like your accent.”

Red spreads up from his neck as he removes his shoes and begins lacing up his skates. It isn’t as if he wants to avoid eye contact, but he cannot afford risking it like this in such a public setting.

“Why? It is just the average Berliner accent.”

“It’s attractive, Lud.” He's still flashing him his million dollar smile, and Ludwig is quickly forgetting how to think. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for it now all because of you.”

“Why? It’s harsh and clipped. I sound like I have gravel in my throat. I cannot see how you find that appealing.” It’s true. English sounds like lead from his tongue while it flows like molten gold from Alfred's lips.

Alfred leans over, one skate done up, and elbows him playfully in the side. “It’s sexy; sends shivers down your spine. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Just take the compliment, babe. Let me love on you.”

“We are in public, Alfred.” He hisses back before pausing mid-lace, a memory stirring up unbidden at the mention of shivers. With some effort, he lowers his voice as he responds. “...Oh, I believe I understand. It is similar to when you were upset with Braginsky.” He's careful not to use nation titles so close to mortal humans. “When you shouted.”

“Oh my god, did that turn you on?” Alfred smiles at him in amazement, and Ludwig immediately regrets his decision to voice that aloud. “Should I invite you over every time I'm about to go off on that fucker? Because I can do that. I can definitely do that.”

He's flushed bright red, finishing up his laces with a soft curse. He likes Alfred, yes. He likes him a lot, but there are times when he wishes he'd refrain from speaking, especially about certain things, aloud and especially in public. “Alfred, I refuse to discuss this with you in this context.”

He stands and offers Ludwig a hand up, quite clearly not planning on quitting. As Ludwig takes his hand, he hoists him up and murmurs in his ear as they pass. “So me pissed gives you a fear boner? Am I hearing you right?”

“You're terrible.” Ludwig mutters back in German.

“You know you love me.” Alfred lilts in English, turning out towards the rink.

Ludwig watches as he steps onto the ice and shakes his head, following him despite his better judgement. He knows he's about to make a fool of himself, but he figures there are worse things to be doing. His attention drifts back to Alfred whose feet are working the instant his skates meet ice, gliding him easy across the rink. He's at ease, arms pumping leisurely as he takes a lap around the rink.

Ludwig stumbles after him, struggling even on solid ground, and moves to place his feet, hesitant, on the ice. He grips the side walls like a lifeline, his breath visible before him. He can see Alfred in the corner of his vision, looping figure eights with insufferable ease. Alfred skates back around to where Ludwig is, turning quick into a polished stop by his side, and offers him a smile. He looks like an angel on the ice with the artificial light soaking in his golden hair and highlighting his tanned cheekbones, but Ludwig, as his feet threaten to slip out from beneath him, has half a mind to curse him for his grace.

“Need a hand?” He sounds completely unfazed.

Ludwig is most definitely cursing him on some plane of existence or another.

“Not in public. I cannot hold your hands.”

“Oh, come on. It's just bros being dudes. Dudes being bros. Let me help you.” Alfred offers him his hands, his blasé attitude almost veiling his hopefulness towards the situation.

Ludwig studies him with a weak attempt at a glare, barely standing on his skates. On one hand, he knows he’ll look like an idiot clutching the rink’s sides for the entirety of the hour, but on the other, what will people say should they be seen holding hands? He isn't sure of the _climate_ here in Norway, but he knows in his own country, it would never fair well.

Still, there are only four, five people on the ice, and the man at the booth hadn't seem to care. Ludwig decides tonight is already a night of chances, and he may as well take a leaf from Alfred's book. He steels himself and takes Alfred’s hands, immediately falling forward. With a noise of surprise, he rips his hands from Alfred's grip and pulls his hands around his middle, disturbed to find Alfred skating effortlessly backwards and maintaining his perfect balance. He doesn't wish for Alfred to fall, no doubt, since he's keeping _him_ from falling, but part of him is beginning to question how plausible it is for one man to be so graceful yet so… _Alfred._

He pushes himself up quickly, his hands gripping tight on Alfred's hips as his feet begin to migrate apart. Alfred sets his hands over Ludwig's and begins guiding him slowly backwards.

“You're okay. You're fine. I'm not going to let you fall. You gotta trust me, Ludwig. Just do what I say.”

Ludwig's feet are still migrating, and he questions if Alfred's plan all along was to force him into doing the splits. Not that he can. He most definitely cannot.

“Okay, so I want you to move your feet one after the other. Move your right forward like...”

He does.

“Yeah! Like that. Now pick up your left foot and do the same thing.”

He does again.

“Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot.” He takes them around a curve and past another skater. “Great! That's it. You're a natural.”

He really isn't. His legs still feel like stumps, and his feet like loosened screws. He may no longer be near the splits, but he's leaning heavily on Alfred, and he can feel his expression twisting into intense concentration. They pass the couple to their right, and the boy is staring while the girl giggles. He fights the urge to shut his eyes and die from embarrassment right then and there, but there's little he can do when his hands are stationed right atop Alfred's hips. Alfred is still tugging him backwards, and he cannot skate on his own especially when starting from the middle of the rink.

“Hey. Hey, Lud. Look at me. Stop paying attention to them. You're fine, okay?”

He flushes, something tingly and warm sparking in his chest at Alfred's intuitive understanding of his fears. “Sorry.”

“You're fine! Okay, but I'm going to let go now! I think you've got it.”

Ludwig has no time to protest before Alfred skates them closer to the side and releases his hands from his hips. It’s a straight shot, a good twenty meters before he’ll hit the wall, and his legs are still moving. The air runs brisk across his skin, and the wind sings by his ears, adrenaline rushing live through his blood. Ludwig scrapes his skates across the ice and propels himself forward, the roar of the city sounds sliced by his blades and drowned in his heartbeat. Exhilaration sparks cool in his chest, the winter air burning his lungs. He straightens up, his feet melding with his stride as the wall ahead nears, a tickling fear edging into his mind. He's coming to the realization that he doesn't know how to turn.

To the best of his ability, Ludwig pulls his feet in towards the center, his blades digging gouges in the icy surface, yet even now, he knows he’ll be too late. Panic begins to mount in the back of his head, his toes turning inward in an attempt to stop. His balance begins to falter when warmth materializes behind him, hands moving to steady him on his biceps and Alfred’s voice by his ear.

“Woah there, Cowboy. Keep your feet under you.”

He struggles to keep his balance as Alfred brings their speed down to something manageable and guides them smoothly around the turn. His heart stutters back to life as he leans against Alfred’s arms for balance, and he's pushed gently up into a more comfortable position, Alfred skating around to his side and keeping a hand secured on his arm.

Ludwig blinks, the panic receding and mild horror at Alfred’s adrenaline sparking actions washing up in its place. He turns to speak, but as he does, he finds himself drawn quiet by Alfred's exuberance. His face is fresh and his holding, energized, his cheeks ruddy in the night chill. The breeze tousles his hair, stray shocks blown back from his face, and he smiles like lightning bolts through to Ludwig's feet, warmth rolling off him in waves. He feels like popcorn is flashing fluttery in his head, barely processing an almost stumble as Alfred rights him with a gentle press of his hip against his.

“I’ve got you.” Alfred says, his voice scrambled beneath the ambient breeze and urban din. There's stardust in his smile, and Ludwig is nearly forgetting his concern.

“Do not let go with so little warning.” Ludwig huffs beneath his breath. He may be half dazed by Alfred’s warm squeeze to his shoulder and the leftover jitters from his almost fall, but not so much that he can’t complain about being sent off without warning on the ice.

“It’s like riding a bike, Lud. I gotta pull off the training wheels eventually.” Alfred drags his hand light across his back as he moves away from his side. He rests his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder instead, and while Ludwig knows they’ve practically given themselves away already and that even this much contact is dangerous, he’s disappointed by Alfred’s body disconnecting from his.

“But not ten seconds after I’ve barely managed to stand.”

“You're right, you're right. I'm sorry, Lud. I’ll give you more warning next time? You got going pretty fast there though. I think you’re a natural!”

He doesn’t feel like a natural. 

Alfred as alway is quick to reassure him with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. Alfred picks up his pace, his legs working fluid to glide across the ice. He pauses just ahead, waiting for Ludwig to catch up, and Ludwig does his best to follow.

 

* * *

 

“What time is it?” 

Ludwig startles at the question, not expecting Alfred’s presence at his side. He slows to a stop, having finally gained control of his limbs and his feet beneath him, and pulls up his sleeve as Alfred skates lazy circles around him. He blinks in surprise at his watch.

“20:25. I did not expect it to be this late.”

“Time flies when you’re having a grand time.” Alfred drawls, words easy off his lips, as he skates up behind him.

As Alfred passes him, Ludwig starts up again,falling in with his languid pace and enjoying the bite of the wind on his face. His mood has considerably lifted, the insecurities of the early evening fading with the rising night. It’s easier now to smile, and it’s Alfred that’s done it. Ludwig folds his hands behind his back and leans over, almost teasing in his tone.

“It flies even faster in good company.”

Alfred flushes with a wide smile, flicking his fingers against Ludwig’s thigh. “Smooth talker.”

Ludwig finds heat blossoming in his own cheeks, but in spite of this, he offers Alfred a small smile.

Alfred taps his fingers against his thigh again, dragging them light across the side of his pants. His skates dig into the ice as he shoots ahead and grins, spinning around until he’s skating backwards. His hair is almost honey in the light, rows of perfect white teeth flashing in a smile and his eyes shining with the promise of a plan for excitement. Ludwig inhales sharp, leaning forward in anticipation, and watches as Alfred’s lips move to form his request.

“Race me,” he says.

Of course. Ludwig smiles, genuine, and pushes forward, endearment falling into concentration. “Just not too fast. We do not want to knock anyone over.”

“Please, Lud, I won’t run into anyone. _You’re_ the one who needs to be careful.”

They’re picking up speed, Alfred still skating backwards, yet despite his disadvantage, his strides remain smooth and quick. Earlier he’d admitted Matthew was better on the ice when it came to fancy footwork, but by his current grace, Ludwig would’ve been none the wiser. Alfred waves a hand, glancing back.

“Come on! I didn’t say, ‘let’s see who can go the slowest.’ One more time around after this! Make it count!”

Alfred whizzes ahead, and Ludwig finds himself grinning. He kicks his skates against the ice and propels himself forward. They round the last bend, heart rates rising as they enter into to their final circuit, and Ludwig feels like he’s taking lift. The air stings crisp on his skin, and his legs pump to push him effortlessly over ice. He can hear the scritch of metal cutting thin nicks in the surface, spraying shaved bits of ice in the air. Alfred’s still glowing beneath the spotlight, and the scattering of people still skating pay them no mind. Only the little girl from before and a sibling pair remain situated in the center.

It’s the bend, one foot flying too far behind the center of his gravity, that catches Ludwig off guard. Alfred is a few feet ahead as he begins to stumble, the foot beneath him threatening to shoot backwards as well.

“Wait-!” He shouts, clipped. He can feel himself falling yet again.

He does his best to continue forward, but his momentum and lack of balance is pitching him forward. The same panic begins to bubble up in his throat, and while he knows he’s handled much worse, Ludwig doesn’t particularly want to fall flat on his face to the cold, hard ice; especially not in front of Alfred.

His arms flail forward as his feet slide back beneath him. He braces himself for the impact, his hands pulling up to his face in the split second he has to think, but the impact comes much sooner than expected, and before he knows it, he’s falling backwards instead. His heart pounds in his ears, and air rushes by him. Hands tangle in his hair, settling on the back of his head, and Alfred appears above him, his eyebrows scrunched down in concentration. Confusion hits, but before his mind can work out an explanation, pain ricochets up his tailbone, something warm and heavy on his chest.

Ludwig gives a muffled yelp.

His head doesn’t hit the ice, but lands instead against the hands beneath him. For this he’s grateful, but his rear end is throbbing like someone’s sledge hammered it in place. He slumps against the hands beneath his head, the cold seeping in through the back of shirt, and pants as the realization that it’s Alfred, eyes screwed shut, sprawled atop him, dawns. Ludwig does a double take, and Alfred cracks open an eye, his legs settled between Ludwig’s sprawled out to either side and his chest resting against his. He doesn’t appear hurt, thankfully, but the look on his face is one of pure shock.

It’s the position that’s raising red up in Ludwig’s face and neck, but it’s Alfred’s expression that breaks him into peals of laughter.

His eyes flutter closed as he slaps his own thigh, a round of belly deep laughs rolling out from his mouth. He must look like an idiot. He must sound like an idiot, and he knows the other three skaters must be gawking at them like they’re insane because even Alfred is staring down at him in incredulous disbelief.

Alfred opens his mouth in question, but Ludwig merely shakes his head, undoubtedly aching but more than amused.

“Your _face-_ ” He wheezes, his eyes pricking with the threat of tears of laughter. There's something terribly amusing about being in this position without either of them planning for it, ice skates on and sprawled across ice.

Alfred stares at him for a beat before a grin dances up on his face, pulling up the dimples in his cheeks. Whether out of confusion or amusement is beyond them both, but Alfred snorts, pushing himself up on his forearms, seated warm over Ludwig's hips. “I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered that the first time I hear you really laugh it’s because of my face.”

Alfred’s cheeks are rosy and his eyes, winking in the light behind his glasses. Ludwig wants to cup his face and kiss him, but the threat of strangers’ eyes fixed upon them keeps him from acting. Alfred shifts awkwardly atop him, doing his best to push up to his knees.

“I apologize, but your facial expression was very funny. You are alright?” Ludwig watches Alfred struggle to sit up, moving one of his own hands to rest atop Alfred's in concern. “Were your hands injured when they hit the ice?”

“Honestly, Lud, I'm fine.” He smiles, shifting slowly to move one leg and then the next from between Ludwig to his side. It's as he brings his hand over that his knee slides backwards, and his hand plants itself firmly on Ludwig’s chest once again. Ludwig grunts, and Alfred laughs in embarrassment beneath his breath, picking himself slowly up to his knees before offering Ludwig his hands.

“Sorry. Need a hand?”

Ludwig flushes, the memory of Alfred's hand still lingering on his chest. He pushes himself up off the ice, doing his best to take Alfred's hands.

“I apologize for falling in the first place. It was stupid of me to attempt to go as fast as I did considering my skill level.”

“God, no, not your fault. My fault for suggesting we race. That was a dumbass plan on my part.” Alfred gets to his feet, hoisting Ludwig up without too much difficulty. Ludwig makes sure to keep his feet planted on the ground in order to avoid overt suspicion at Alfred’s uncanny strength. They may be only a few centimeters off in height, but he's found it’s better to be safe than sorry especially when they’ve already warranted unwanted attention.

Ludwig nods his thanks, checking his watch as he stands. Alfred releases his hands with some hesitation and gestures to the exit.

“Time’s up, huh?”

“Yes, just in time. 22:29. Let us go?”

“Let’s go.” Alfred grins, skating out towards the exit.

Once they’ve returned their skates and retrieved both shoes and jackets, Ludwig strolls out of the rink as best he can with the soreness the skates have left in his shins and his fall in his rear. There's a drive to his speed as they leave behind the questioning gazes and blend into the urban night crowd, Ludwig beelining towards the harbor. He figures that while alleyways may be more secluded, they lack the semblance of a view the harbor will provide. Alfred glances over in question, a smile on his lips.

“Hey, where are we walking so fast? This isn't the way to where we're staying.”

Ludwig does a quick side-to-side with his eyes, heat climbing back up in his cheeks. The occasional car rounds the bend, powering along the asphalt, and the people passing by seem to pay them no mind. He lets his fingers brush against Alfred's as he leans in towards his face, his breath hitting the shell of Alfred's ear. He keeps his voice quiet, speaking softly in German.

“I'm taking us to the harbor. I want to kiss you somewhere quieter.”

He pulls back, tugging at the collar of his coat as the air grows suddenly warm. He isn’t sure if being this forward will work to his advantage, so he can only hope his attempts at gauging for a reaction aren't terribly obvious. Alfred remains quiet for a painful few seconds, the color of his face impossible to discern beneath the flickering streetlights. His lips curve gently upwards, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and his eyes set ahead. Alfred responds in quiet English, his eyes shifting sideways to meet Ludwig's for a moment.

“Wow, that’s an even better idea than ice skating.”

“Here. Turn here.” Ludwig sets his hand on Alfred's back, the tension leaving his shoulders at the response as an ease of motion overtakes him. He guides them around the next corner, anticipating the lack of judging spectators already.

The street opens up as the buildings grow further apart, and the harbor, pale beneath the moonlight, is visible up ahead. He sighs in relief to find that his sense of direction hasn’t failed him, and he moves to the edge of the sidewalk in search of a suitable place to cross. They pause in the moonlight, the wind in their ears, but as the traffic lulls, and it becomes safe to cross, they hurry in unison towards the water. He takes Alfred’s arm and tugs him around the harbor buildings, their shadows veiling them in the night and keeping them safe from prying eyes. He stops at the water’s edge.

The scent of saltwater is rich in the air, and the sound of lapping waves fills the background. The docked boats bob tranquil on the surface of the water, and Ludwig drops his hands from Alfred’s arm. There are memories associated with this place, reminders of why Lukas refuses him more than leveled courtesy, which Ludwig knows he can never forget. He lingers, suddenly wary of the light.

He wants to turn back to Alfred, to run his thumb along his jaw and press sweet secrets against his lips in both kisses and words. He wants to run his hands along his chest, hold him skin against skin, feels his heart beneath his golden skin, but there is guilt, and there is shame, and there is the crushing reminder that Ludwig does not deserve the light nor Alfred. There are memories everywhere, and rightly so; rightly so when it was him who brought hell to Europe, to Norway, to Oslo. They fall on him like snow drifts, silent, deadly, only the flakes aren’t of snow but of ash from the burnt hopes and dreams and lives he recklessly set aflame.

Ludwig breathes. Barely.

“Oslofjord.³⁴”

Speaking it aloud is enough to call up smothering emotion. Who has he apologized to for this, for any of it, if at all? And how could he have forgotten a step so vital? Ludwig turns to Alfred who’s fixed on him with a look, unreadable between concern and something more. Panic crawls up his throat. He tries to stop, to pull down the self-reproach from his features and be someone better, someone simpler, someone less depressing for Alfred who deserves so much more. But he’s terrible at being something he’s not.

“Sorry.” 

Alfred slips his arm around Ludwig’s shoulders, nestling up to his side as he wavers, still uncertain. Alfred rests his head against his shoulder and pulls his hat from his head to place it gently atop him. He’s close, his face tilting up to brush lips against Ludwig’s jaw, the message behind his touch far more than words. 

“Ludwig.” 

He sighs into Alfred’s touch, tired and guilty and wishing the past could be erased. “I am sorry. I feel as if I have never told you sorry for the war. Never explicitly. So… I am sorry.” 

“Ludwig.” Alfred breathes against his skin, his face tilting down and his hair feathering against Ludwig’s cheek. “I know you’re sorry. You’ve said sorry enough to me. I’ve forgiven you ages ago. You know this.” 

“But the others…” Ludwig exhales. “I believe this is why they refuse to speak to me. I have wronged them, and now, I have failed to apologize when I should be groveling at their feet. Alfred.” 

He squeezes his shoulder. “Can’t hurt, but Lud, you’re changing for the better, and that’s the best kind of apology in my eyes. They’re not going to hate you forever. Feelings change; you just need to give it time.”

“Time.” He repeats stupidly. “Time does not change everything.”

“It changes most for better or for worse.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“And you think I’m not?” Alfred sighs. “We all fucked up. That damn war fucking haunts me. I did so much wrong. It wasn’t just you.” Ludwig hears him audibly swallow. “It makes me fucking sick when I don’t know if what I did was right, if I could’ve done more, if what I’m doing now is right. I know too fucking much to play pretend, and then- Then I’m fucking _scared_ of the future. I’m fucking scared. The war’s over, and shit’s still hitting the fan, and no one knows what the fuck is going on, so yeah.” He exhales. “I get it. Life’s a bitch, but we’re immortal, and if we let shit like this drown us, we’ll go batshit insane.”

Alfred stops, voice strangely soft, and begins to pull away. “Fuck. _Sorry_. I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

Ludwig catches Alfred's wrists just above his own shoulder, dipping beneath his hand to bring it to his chest. He refuses to let Alfred fall down the rabbit hole he’s teetering over. He stares him dead in the eyes, his lips pulled thin and his expression pleading.

“Alfred. Please do not hide from me.”

“Lud. Shit.”

Ludwig lingers, his hands curled around Alfred’s hand over his chest as they stand in the shadows of an emptied building, the water like rolling glass dark beside their feet. He can hear the city behind them, people and cars and feet, the moonlight on his skin and the smudges of stars pinpricks of white against the water. It feels as if they’re a part of another world, walled within a time-suspended capsule.

Alfred watches him, his expression uncharacteristically masked.

“Alfred,” He says, “I do not mind. You deal with my mess much more often, and communication is good.”

Alfred stares. He brushes his thumb against Ludwig’s chest where it’s rested. “Ludwig, do you still want to kiss me?”

“I- Are you sure you do not wish to discuss this further? I would hate for this to eat at you when you are alone. Overthinking is dangerous, _schatz_.”

Alfred leans in, pressing their chests together and settling his hand on his jaw. “Okay. Actually, in that case, do you find me annoying?”

“What?” He’s genuinely taken aback. This is far from what he’d suspected to be weighing on Alfred’s heart, and this proximity is making it difficult to focus. The worry addressed is so human, so close to home, but before he can address his question with a proper response, Alfred is speaking to fill in the silence.

“Like when I tease you or come knocking at your door repeatedly and shit. Or just my personality. Do you find it annoying?”

He seems so earnest that it makes Ludwig question what Alfred’s been told in the past. His heart aches at the thought of someone dampening the vivacity and conviction and authenticity Alfred holds. He shakes his head, expression morphing into a frown.

“No, far from it. I find you refreshing, if loud at times. But it is good for me. If you had left me in the quiet, I think I would have turned to dust.”

Alfred smiles, his dimples returning, and Ludwig’s heart does somersaults in his chest. He leans forward, resting his forehead against his with a gentle laugh, relief soaking through his very bearing. “Good. I’d be bummed out if you did think I was annoying. But you didn’t answer my other question- honestly, too- do you still want to kiss me?”

His eyes fall to Alfred’s lips, curved upwards in a tender smile. Ludwig smells mint on his breath, cool in his nostrils, and Ludwig wants to kiss him. He’s wanted to since they first locked eyes this evening. If this is what Alfred wants, then he will gladly comply. He takes Alfred’s hat from his head, and with it still in hand, he slides his hands up Alfred’s back and whispers between them.

“Yes. I think I always want to kiss you.”

Alfred leans impossibly close, their lips nearly touching as their breathing mingles as one. He lowers his voice to a whisper, something nearly teasing in his tone.

“Then maybe you should.”

Ludwig smiles at the reference, and then, he does.

He bridges the gap between them, soft, slow, and sensual as their lips meld together. It’s nothing like it’s been before, something far deeper running like a current between them and stirring up more than longing in Ludwig’s gut. Alfred splays his hand on his chest and runs his other from Ludwig’s jaw to his hairline, dragging nails across his scalp. Alfred fists a handful of his hair and tugs just hard enough to pull him closer, Ludwig’s eyes falling closed with the burst of subtle possession. This is how it must feel to drown in a person; to have their hands on your shoulder and your chest and your jaw and threaded through your hair, to have them pressed against the entire front of your body and to taste nothing but them and the mint in their mouth. Ludwig feels as if he’s swallowed a star and plummeted straight to the ocean floor, burning and enveloped and paradoxically apathetic.

Emotions are white hot, swirling in his chest. The strongest is an untethered sort of disregard. It isn’t apathy towards Alfred or even this, far from it, but apathy towards the world and who could see them and who could care. In this moment there is Alfred, his hands, his lips, his warmth, and nothing more, only senses and safety and the gentle promise of his arms. If he ceased to exist at this exact moment, Ludwig wouldn’t have the will to care.

He pulls back as the need for oxygen outweighs the euphoria of the kiss, his brain fogged and eyes still half-lidded. Alfred runs his hand through Ludwig’s hair, smoothing it down from whatever mess he’s made of it, before walking them until Ludwig’s back meets the wall. Ludwig takes a moment to adjust and process, and the hat in his hands is left to fall to the floor. Alfred stares up at him, halfway dazed and halfway ecstatic, the hand from his chest moving to his hip.

But he doesn’t move.

Ludwig refuses to simply stare when Alfred’s this close, so he slips his hands to his face and pulls him back into a kiss. He drags his thumb across his cheekbones, cupping beneath his jaw, and Alfred’s hands tug back his hair, lighting fireworks in his brain. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, their minds blank from coherent thought during this period of strange lighted weight, but as they pull away, Ludwig feels as if he’s walked between the sky.

Alfred smiles up at him, his hands still carding through his hair as it falls back in his face, the gel having long ago lost the battle against his hands. Ludwig sets his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, smiling back in question.

“Yes?”

“So, do you _really_ think it’s hot when I’m pissed at Ivan?”

Ludwig stares for a moment in complete disbelief, before breaking in a disbelieving smile. His head falls against Alfred’s shoulder, laughing quietly beneath his breath. “You are _terrible_ . Do not make me answer that, and besides, it was an inaccurate wording of the statement. It has nothing specifically to do with _him_.”

“Oh, so when I get pissed in general?” Alfred begins smoothing back his hair, pushing it away from his eyes from above him. “Tell me more. I want to hear all about this.”

“I strongly dislike you right now.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ludwig sighs, still smiling as his ears flush red. “No. I don't.”

“Exactly, so tell me _all_ about it while we walk back.”

He groans, burying his face further in Alfred’s coat. “Fine. On one condition, you never tell anyone about it. Ever.”

“What? Your kinks or us making out behind a building that smells like fucking fish?”

He doesn’t even bother to respond. He shakes his head with a snort. “Do not forget your hat. I dropped it behind us.”

“I’ll take that as a both.”

Ludwig only sighs, no bite to his mock exasperation.

It would be a long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ²⁹ Ria Baran and Paul Falk were German pairs figure skaters. They won gold at the 1952 Winter Olympics. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Germany_at_the_1952_Winter_Olympics#Figure_skating)]_
> 
> ³⁰ During the Olympics, some stayed in the local hospital. _[[x](https://library.olympic.org/Default/doc/SYRACUSE/37927/vi-olympiske-vinterleker-oslo-1952-vi-olympic-winter-games-oslo-1952-publ-by-the-organising-committe?_lg=en-GB#_ga=2.9839477.1984225880.1522644033-1846886454.1522644033)]_
> 
> ³¹ The 1952 Winter Olympics were held in Oslo, Norway. It was the first Olympic games Germany was allowed in following WWII. As Ludwig says, Germany won gold in two-man bobsleigh, four-man bobsleigh and pairs figure skating. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Germany_at_the_1952_Winter_Olympics#Medalists)]_
> 
> ³² East Germany declined to compete with West Germany in a unified team, making West Germany the sole representative of Germany during the 1952 Olympic games. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1952_Winter_Olympics)]_
> 
> ³³ Anti-German sentiments were still alive and well during this time period, especially in Norway where Nazi occupation had been experienced. Discussions were held regarding whether or not Germany would even be allowed to compete, and the possibility of people boycotting the Olympics due to German participation had to be taken into account. Even after Germany was formally invited, Norway remained reluctant to welcome Germans into Oslo. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1952_Winter_Olympics#Politics)]_
> 
> ³⁴ Oslofjord was the site of the Battle of Drøbak, a key event in the German invasion of Norway during WWII. While the actual battle occurred in Drøbak Sound, the objective had been to reach Oslo and capture the Norwegian king, Haakon VII, and his government. The king, however, escaped after Germany's flagship sank. _[[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Dr%C3%B8bak_Sound)]_


End file.
